Tangled in Strings
by phoenixflames76
Summary: The Avengers find a familiar face amongst the wreckage of a HYDRA base, introducing a new wave of complications as they struggle to piece the puzzle together. Pietro Maximoff/OC eventual AU
1. Part I: Prologue

Part I: In Which Pietro Is Alive

 **Prologue**

The obsidian rocks gleamed in the moonlight filtering through the gaping hole of the roof of the cavern. The blocks of rock seemed to both capture and reflect the luminescence of the night sky, unusually bright tonight. Water lapped at the edges of a bank strewn with lost trinkets. The gentle caress of the waves upon the pebbly sand remained the sole sound in the cavern. Even the heavy breathing of two trespassers emitted no noise as the air, cool and crisp and clear, robbed them of audibility.

A male and a female picked their way through the spires of rock and slopes of sand. Gemstones glimmered at their feet, unearthed by years of erosion of the soil, impregnated as it was by the silt of the pool, that they had been buried beneath. The man's eyes trailed among them, but he did not stoop to retrieve one. The maiden's focus never strayed from reaching the shallow pool. She ignored the treasure trove of jewels, clutching a wooden box to her chest as if she feared it would leap from her hands lest she loosen her grip. Leading the man to the water, she crouched in the wet sand. From his satchel he removed a frayed leather-bound tome whose inked parchment pages betrayed its age. Opening the book to a familiar spot, he wordlessly directed the woman to reveal the contents of the box.

Her hands were steady as she placed a worn photograph face-up on the ground at her side. Next she deposited a pair of running shoes, the soles worn through. Finally she laid a lock of white hair on top of the picture. The hair appeared silver in the pale light. At the man's instruction-still silent, still communicating by gestures-she plucked a russet strand from her own head. Selecting a shard of obsidian from the bed of fragmented rock that was partially the cavern floor, she sliced open her palm, wincing as rivulets of crimson blood streamed from the broken flesh and coalesced into a puddle over the items, staining the shoes red.

Anxiety liquefied the man's blue eyes, turning them into swimming oceans of concern. He craned his neck to peer out the hole at the moon, which was positioned directly above the pool. Distractedly he began rolling up the sleeves of his plaid button-down, watching the woman mouth words to herself. He knew from studying the ancient mythological lore described in the tome that the cavern prevented them from speaking and disrupting the serenity. The site was a focal point for mystical energy; it radiated a unique beacon from a scientific perspective and housed a brilliant aura for the religious and occult believers. Legends said it was a center for life: the renewal, the rebirth, and the ending. People who bathed in the water were replenished and healed. Restored. In the olden days, mothers would bear their children here, believing they would be blessed. Some indigenous civilizations from the area would bring their dying to the scene; once they passed, their souls would be cleansed and would ascend to the afterlife, riding on a beam of moonlight. There were other stories too, dealing with the surplus of gems; some claimed they were cursed, and others promised they were sources of power and wealth. However, they were here for one thing and one thing only: the water's restorative properties.

The girl tapped him on the knee. He nodded. Scarlet leaked into her eyes, an effulgent glow replacing her irises. Red energy flowed from her hands as she thrust them into the pool and her companion shoved the objects in. The tinted photograph floated on the surface briefly before the smiling faces of two parents and their children sank into the depths to a watery sleep.

Though no words escaped, her lips moved in a chant that shook the air. It thrummed with the power pulsating from her; the hum visibly vibrated the air, shaking the two humans' vision. The chant's crescendo steadily grew, as did the vibrating. Finally it was as if the very atmosphere shattered, a spell broken, and a scream pierced the air. The bubbling water churned, red light emanating from its deceiving depth. Obsidian trembled. Precious gems protruded from the ground, creating spikes of emerald and garnet and topaz. Sparkling diamonds popped from the earth. The scream suddenly morphed; it was utter agony to listen to the cry of grief but it was as if the very spirits of the hidden cave hung on every forbidden note. It was a banshee's wail, speaking of death and misery and anguish. It lingered afterward, striking the hearts of any who heard the distant fading echo of one who wished for death but didn't receive it, left stranded and lost in an isle of isolated pain and longing. To hear it was to know that torture and as the cavern quivered, a beam of light burst from the pool. The waves coughed up their condolences, spilling their empathy onto the bank at the woman's feet.

Abruptly, the torment hanging in the air with the remnants of the scream dissipated. A third body lay coiled and gasping on the rocks. The woman sprang forward, yanking the body into her lap to cradle it against her chest despite its superior weight and size. A peal of giddy laughter rang forth; tears spilled down her cheeks. Eyelids fluttered open, swirling with silver and scarlet before fading to their original hue.

"Pietro," whispered Wanda. She cupped his face, leaning her forehead against his. "Brother, I've brought you back." Smiling, she turned to the man knelt nearby, frozen in awe. "Dr. Selvig, let's go home."


	2. Part I: Chapter One

**AN: Thanks to everyone who read and hopefully enjoyed the prologue. The OC won't be introduced for another couple of chapters. This is set in the MCU following Age of Ultron and will probably be rendered AU by Civil War. and possibly Ant Man. The MCU doesn't really flesh out the extent of Wanda's powers, especially considering the conversion of them from mutants to volunteer lab rats, so I'll be taking creative liberties. Just wanted to throw that out there for comic purists.** **Also, I don't own Marvel or its characters or any storylines I might incorporate. If I did, would I be writing fanfiction?**

 **Chapter One**

* * *

Clint Barton had worked as a spy and assassin for S.H.I.E.L.D. for years. He had survived two world takeover attempts, all the while serving on the Avengers team. He'd seen some fantastical, otherworldly events and encountered even odder people during that time, especially when he'd been assigned an undercover op within a caravan of travelling gypsies. Little surprised him, or at least startled him enough that he lost his composure. Yet when Wanda Maximoff showed up on his porch with Dr. Selvig and the limp body of her dead brother, his brain shorted out and he was reduced to a quivering orphan holding a bow for the first time, too scared to venture out on the tight rope.

The disturbance arrived in the middle of the night; despite firmly telling his son lights out at ten o' clock, he didn't doubt Cooper was still up, huddled beneath the patchwork quilts on his phone. Lila had lost a tooth earlier in the week, so he'd snuck soundlessly into her room and expertly replaced the piece of bone with a quarter. Then he'd come back, feeling guilty for only leaving her a _quarter_ and soon enough his little girl had accumulated a dollar in tooth money. Laura stopped him from just emptying the jar of change they kept on the dresser once his parental sense of equality between kids caught up with him and the idea to dispense his loose bills to all three of them occurred.

He responded indignantly, "Why don't you play tooth fairy then?"

Laura gave him a look that had him cowering and sighed, "I always wake them up; you know that. I swear Natasha trained Lila to be a light sleeper."

They were curled up in bed, a bored Laura flicking through channels during the intervals when the storm spared the electricity, while he massaged her tense shoulders. Rain relentlessly pounded against the roof and battered the windows. The wind howled in the rafters; the house trembled under the merciless barrage. By the time it settled, the rain lazily drizzling down to earth as if caressing the wounds it inflicted, a headache beat against his skull with the storm's former intensity at the mental list of future DIY projects he would have to invest in to repair the damage. He would have to make his rounds in the morning and catalogue all the necessary-

Commotion downstairs immediately shifted his focus. Hawkeye slipped into place, and Clint dutifully retreated from the forefront. He grabbed the gun he kept under the bed and methodically loaded it swiftly. Signaling Laura to collect the kids, he crept towards the origin of the loud noises, carefully avoiding the creaky steps. An hour or so prior, he might have assumed a refugee from the vicious weather cycle. Now, the assassin who'd obediently terminated targets and handled potential threat cases for the majority of his life identified the harsh knocks on the front door as trouble. Quick in succession-frantic. Cautiously he peered through a crack created by the heavy drapes, discerning three water-logged figures, a petite female and a hunched male struggling to hoist a third larger, seemingly limp body up from where it slumped lifelessly over their shoulders. With his gun cocked, ready to disarm or return fire should the helpless appearance prove a ruse, Clint opened the door.

The sputtering glow of the porch light illuminated the drenched trio's pale faces clearly, but disbelief reigned over the maelstrom of emotions churning within him, rooting him to the spot, pistol still cocked and levelled at the ashen face of Pietro Maximoff, draped over his two companions like a sack. It couldn't be, but the snow white hair and strong features were unmistakable. His son's namesake, one of them anyway. His hearing implants, courtesy of Tony, who claimed the faithful aids made him look like an old man and God forbid if any of his teammates didn't fit the bill for his personal standard of "cool," rewarded him with a sense of optimized incredibly keen hearing; thus, he could hear Wanda's teeth chattering and the whimpers of pain emitted from her twin, the object of his dumbfounded gaze.

Eventually, Laura decided his lack of action indicated it was safe to return to their normal lives and tromped down the carpeted steps with the grace of a herd of elephants to investigate herself. She sidled up beside him, gently easing the firearm from his rigid hands. His wife guided him out of the doorway, his bewildered mind vulnerable and bereft of function, like a marionette with severed strings. He watched, the shock gradually fading, while she supplied Wanda, Pietro, and the surprising accomplice Dr. Selvig with the fluffy towels reserved for guests and steaming mugs of coffee. Once dry, she failed to resist her motherly impulses toward the twins, the youngest of the current party. Clint's mouth twitched in an amused smirk as Laura swaddled Wanda and Pietro each in turn with blankets, tucking them up to their chins with an adoring smile that radiated a maternal warmth.

Finally he regained control of himself and stood abruptly. The idle conversation ceased. Clint wordlessly dropped into the armchair across from Wanda and fixed her with his sternest expression, barely managing to conceal his utter befuddlement towards the entire situation, aided only by the cool grace one developed after several instances in which their lives relied on their bluffing skills.

"Wanda," he began, "what did you do?"

It was a testament to the bond he now shared with the girl that she knew the location of his house. He'd brought his original teammates into the fold due to necessity; while he allowed casual inquiries about their wellbeing and joking prods, (now that their secret had been exposed, there was no use in keeping tight-lipped about it) he didn't plan on revealing the existence of his family to anyone else, especially not the newer members of the guild he comprehended less and distrusted more. Yet with each passing day after Ultron's defeat that he saw Wanda feign stability, and with each night that he heard her sobs echo through the air vents where he slept, he sympathized, and every watery smile schooled on the face that had been tear-stained the night before chipped away at his brittle heart. Finally he just dropped from her ceiling on a particularly bad night after she'd awoken screaming from what he assumed was another nightmare. He'd held her while she cried, rocking her back and forth and cooing the honest condolences in her ear.

Not that it was okay, because it wasn't. The only family she had left, the solitary constant in her life, her goddamn _twin_ had died and even though she wasn't there to see him fall, the way she described the utter agony that ripped through her soul left him wondering if maybe she _was,_ if their connection ran so deep that she felt his death, his sudden absence. He was a good listener; it helped that he could relate to the trauma, that his own ghosts haunted his sleep. He never mentioned the nightmares of his own; she never asked why he was always up at night, ready to comfort her.

Pietro didn't only occupy every waking and sleeping moment of his sister's time, but his death had latched onto Clint. When he closed his eyes, he watch the blood blossom on the tight blue and white shirt, leak from his body onto the rubble, mixing with the dust and powdered rock debris. The light die from his eyes. The cracked bone, shredded muscle, and punctured organs. The last twitch of his feet as if he'd hop up and dash off again, the combination of sarcasm and smirk leaving Clint grappling at self-control and muttering curses.

That was six months ago; since then, they'd both made progress. He'd invited Wanda to spend a few weeks out on their farm; his kids loved her. She entranced and entertained Lila; new playmates were always refreshing, and his daughter delighted in the appearance of one with seemingly tireless energy and willingness to play whatever game of her choosing. Natasha only half-jokingly fretted that Wanda might usurp her as their favorite "aunt". Little Nathaniel was mystified. She enamored Cooper, who was fascinated by her elaborate otherworldly tales, and he worried his eldest son might be infatuated. If so, Clint hoped the kid never witnessed Wanda and Vision's subtle flirting, strange as it was. Laura in particular enjoyed listening to some of Wanda's more outlandish stories of her mischievous childhood exploits; the Sokovian's once clipped English had matured, and these days, she was hardly ever frugal. The two week vacation greatly improved her health, both mental and physical. Clint hated to risk jinxing it, but it appeared as if she had accepted Pietro's death, had graduated from scraping through her days to coping to living again.

Looks like he'd spoken too soon.

When he received no answer, he pinched the bridge of his nose. "Please don't tell me you reanimated his corpse," he pleaded. Suspiciously, he appraised her brother's limp form, sprawled beside her on their couch in a quilt cocoon, greatly resembling a burrito. Drooping eyes flicked upwards to briefly meet his gaze before sliding shut once more.

Wanda blinked, pausing in her motion of twining wet hair around a long finger. "Like a zombie?"

"Like a zombie," confirmed Clint.

"It was incredible," interjected Selvig. "I initially doubted its success given the scientific impossibility, but this girl's raw power is astounding. The energy readings were off the charts in that cavern. Amazing spectacle, truly awe-inspiring."

"You mean, you resurrected him using . . . magic?" Laura guessed, perching on the arm of the chair.

Wanda sighed and dug her brother's hand out of the blankets. She gripped it reassuringly, reminding Clint with a sharp pang of the way she clutched his own hand while she cried. "I've been researching possible ways to bring back my brother since they proclaimed him dead. They buried his body but not my hope. Eventually I happened upon an ancient book of myths in the library and found a legend of a cave detailed as having restorative properties. I discovered the site was actually real and convinced Dr. Selvig to accompany me, given his expertise in the mythological. There was a ritual involving components of one's essence and from there it was sheer will power and the water's work. Magic indeed. And then it coughed him up onto its banks, just as the legend foretold," described Wanda, focusing her attention on stroking his white knuckles with her thumb. She kept her eyes firmly planted on their clasped hands until Clint cleared his throat, prompting her to lift her gaze.

"And he's perfectly fine? No bullet wounds, no spirit possession?" he clarified warily.

Wanda shook her head, tears glimmering in her eyes. "I have him back, Clint," she said, breaking into a joyful smile that split her cheeks and encompassed the relieved glee welling up in her and streaking down her face in salty tears. He'd never seen her grin like that before. He supposed the boy must be decent if he elicited such pure, unadulterated happiness in his sister.

Clint suddenly grinned, lunging forward to embrace them. He dragged Laura into the group hug using his free arm. With his kids slumbering peacefully in their beds, his lovely wife in his arms, a framed photograph on the side table to represent Tasha, and the Maximoff twins sheltered safely under their roof, he could safely say all of his family was home.


	3. Part I: Chapter Two

Chapter Two

Pietro Maximoff drummed his fingers on his leg irritably, unaware that to ordinary people they would appear as an agitated blur hovering over his knee. Employing his speed in daily activities became second nature when his sister revived him. He shuddered as the memory of the cold water lanced up his spine; hastily he locked away the recollection of his resurrection before he could dwell on the single, brief moment when, after opening his eyes in Wanda's embrace, he tried to move and felt paralyzed.

Caught in the throes of the battle of Sokovia, where his nightmares so often trapped him, his first impulse had been to keep running. He searched within himself for the speed that was as essential to him as a lung and for a fleeting, terrifying second, he couldn't find it. Then it flowed back into him, a familiar change of perspective that rendered the rest of the world so _slow_. Nonetheless, the miniscule lapse frightened him. After everything that had happened since the experiments with the Scepter and he acquired his speed, he couldn't imagine going back to living without it: a mundane existence that would forever seem dull after his departure from it and the extraordinary feats he'd witnessed.

A strand of white hair drifted into his eyes, riding on the stream of air blowing directly onto his back from the air vent in the ceiling. Pietro flicked his head. Dully he glanced around the hospital room, which uncomfortably resembled his HYDRA cell. He expected meager furnishings and sleek sterile equipment. However, they exceeded his expectations by providing him with nothing more than the necessary machines and the hard cot. He didn't even warrant a room with a _window_ ; they probably feared he'd one day leap out of it or use it as a means of escape, and he admitted their precautions were on the right track. Wincing, he rubbed his back. The nightmares that plagued him weren't the only causes of poor sleep. At least in his cell, they allowed him to run back and forth, testing how hard he could slam into the wall each time when he increased his newfound speed. Here, the nurse on duty threatened to drug him.

Technically, Pietro shouldn't fear a pudgy fifty-year-old woman wielding a hypodermic needle, given the fact he'd actually been dead, and thus faced far worse than a medical attendant all too happy to jam a syringe into his neck without caring about its contents. He could probably escape before she even put her finger on the plunger anyway. Still, Pietro hated being poked and prodded. It made Strucker and List's probing almost impossible to endure. To his chagrin, the speedster was far from fearless.

Agitatedly he resorted to pacing the room, struggling to restrain himself. He didn't understand the necessity of his extended stay in the medical wing; Dr. Selvig could just as easily monitor him in Wanda's apartment or Barton's farmhouse as he could here. Daily work currently occupied the astrophysicist. Selvig wasn't even in New York; he was teaching at Culver, if Pietro heard him right. These days, he normally lacked attention when people other than his sister or Clint spoke to him.

Speaking of his sister, she was due for her daily visitation. Apparently, since she joined the next generation of Avengers, it required constant vigorous training and recreation time spent bonding with her new teammates to build ease of communication and trust for teamwork in the field (or so she said-it sounded like she was just repeating the Captain). Wanda had yet to enthrall him with tales of her missions, but he sensed the inevitable question coming soon. _What if_ s plagued his mind.

He and Wanda were twins; they'd guarded each other all of their lives; back before he died, Wanda was the sole most important thing in his life, and vice versa. Could that have changed? The undying faith in his twin scoffed; she had spent valuable time pouring over old legends before discovering the story of the cavern in which he'd been resurrected. The fact she was capable of restoring the dead astounded him. Little Wanda, the girl seemingly fragile with her trips into the minds and fears of others, who crawled in bed with him after a nightmare when they were children: Pietro suddenly realized she was strong. Stronger than he ever believed, and stronger than him. If it had been the other way around, if Wanda sacrificed herself for Barton or the Captain, Pietro doubted his coping skills.

Not to mention, Wanda had friends now. Possibly, she considered _them_ her family. What if they disliked the rash, impulsive, obnoxious ghost brother? He had no clear idea of what he'd do without picturing Wanda by his side. Of course, he knew they wouldn't be together forever. At a reasonable time they'd eventually separate; yet he felt they were the kind of siblings who would stay close, cling to those bonds forged from trauma. If the Avengers kicked him to the curb, he'd probably be immediately deported, shipped back to Sokovia like a mail delivery sent to the wrong address.

His insecurities never occupied him for long; even his mental reaction time surpassed that of an average person. They lingered but never restrained him. Finding nothing else to occupy himself, he resorted to visualizing the chess board of his childhood, still laid out with the players' pieces poised for checkmate. He used to play with his father; a sad chuckle bubbled up in his throat. Quickly he squashed it at the familiar set of footsteps approaching his room. Before the visitors had a chance to knock, he palmed open the door to meet not only his sister but someone completely alien. The ready smile melted from his face.

As she filed by, leading the woman inside, Wanda sent him a pointed look that conveyed her message perfectly: _Behave._

Pietro left the door open, unsure of whether the guest was S.H.I.E.L.D. but certain of the implication his wavering position at the threshold indicated: the stranger was free to leave, and he would by no means detain her.

He took a second to appraise her. The woman's all-black ensemble spoke volumes; typically, the agents he occasionally glimpsed roaming around the place wore similar garb. A sturdy stance, military posture, and the slight upward tilt of her chin favored soldier. The sleek tablet cradled in the crook of her arm convinced him of her high-ranked status. Despite her reasonable attractiveness, she definitely wasn't his usual type of woman. The smile perched on her pink lips meant nothing; anyone could fake a friendly exterior. Behind that pleasant close-lipped greeting could be viper fangs dripping deadly venom, poised to sink into either one of them. Pietro adjusted his stance. He didn't like agency people, and he definitely didn't trust a single one, no matter what excuses Wanda spoon-fed him on their behalf.

"Brother, this is Maria Hill," declared Wanda, sensing his belligerence. "She used to work for S.H.I.E.L.D., but now she's employed by Tony Stark. Recently she relocated, in order to assist with the training of the new Avengers unit, since she has prior experience in dealing with the team." His twin searched his face for a sign of peace; he smirked smugly when she averted her gaze in frustration at finding nothing.

Hill extended a hand. Pietro shook it, resisting the urge to violently employ his speed to rapidly jerk it and subsequently dislocate her shoulder. "I'm here to ask a favor of you and your sister," said Hill, jumping to the chase. She pressed a button on the tablet and brought the screen to life. She hoisted the device, tilting it to display the screen to the twins and still maintain a view to operate it. Hill tapped it once; a photograph appeared captioned by the word **"JUMPER"** depicting a young girl whose feral eyes gleamed with insanity. Ginger hair framed her face, but it did nothing to soften her features, bared in a vicious snarl.

"Who is that?" barked Pietro. He edged closer to Wanda, placing an arm protectively around her shoulders as if the mystery girl might materialize from her picture.

"This is Liana McKinnis. Six months ago she was involved in a lab accident. They were testing a device engineered to displace matter and then reassemble it at a fixed location without the matter physically travelling the distance." At their blank looks, she amended, "They were building a teleportation machine. Half of the people present died; Liana was in a coma for five and a half months. As a sponsor of the project, we looked into the survivors. We noticed some peculiarities in her vitals, so we brought her here. She woke up two weeks ago sporting some side effects."

"Side effects? Like madness?" Wanda speculated. "Or do you mean she was enhanced?"

While Pietro fidgeted, Hill awarded Wanda with an appreciative look. "You're clever, Maximoff, I'll give you that. Yes, the energy reflux altered her genetics, we believe rendering her capable of teleportation. However, we have yet to tap into that power. Her condition is unstable and right now we're working on a way to suppress her new abilities until she's in a better state of mind. So far we've been using a method provided by a close friend."

Pietro narrowed his eyes, suspicious of Hill's motive behind informing them of this seemingly unrelated development in a random woman. The agency probably had multiple cases like this in a year, in which they dealt with the extraordinary before it harmed the public. She was stalling, he decided, wasting too much time in elaborating on the intricacies of the origin story. Impatiently he interjected, "What does this have to do with us?"

Wanda elbowed him in the ribs. He winced. Her right hand clasped his left, and he felt her hesitant, gentle probing at his mind. Wanda rarely required the use of her powers to read him; normally they shared exactly what they were feeling with one another. The fact she sought his perspective clued Pietro in that his sister may have guessed more about this than Hill surmised.

"We thought interacting with others who have been _enhanced_ might . . . console Liana," admitted Hill, swiping her finger across the screen to pull up a file.

Pietro could see his reflection in the tablet's screen. Flared nostrils, gritted teeth, clenched fists, and fierce scowl contributed to his overall 'I-don't-want-to-be-here' expression. It matched his mood perfectly. "Get to the point," he snapped.

Hill ignored his brusque attitude. "We want you to talk to her. Say whatever you need to in order to calm her down. Right now she's a raging lunatic who ceaselessly rambles, refuses medication, and persistently resists sleeping until eventually she passes out from exhaustion and wakes up shortly after screaming from nightmares she won't tell the psychologists about. Basically, this girl is a mess. She's been through a lot and she's lost. Sounds like the two of you once upon a time." Sympathy melted the steel in Hill's light blue eyes. She made a few modifications to the tablet before handing it to Wanda, who cautiously accepted it.

He glared at the woman, watching her leave the room and keeping his grim gaze trained on her departing figure until she finally turned the corner and disappeared from sight. He didn't like that last remark concerning their shifted loyalties. Hill said it in hopes of evoking an emotional response, and it looked like she was getting one in Wanda's empathic, beseeching eyes. Comparing the insane girl to them stirred a sense of responsibility and obligation in his sister; he knew this because he shared the feelings. Yet his first priority was his sister; besides, he could barely sit still long enough to hear Hill's lengthy plea-how would he fare attempting to soothe a supposedly mad teleporter?

"We should help her," Wanda immediately appealed. "At least we had people who expected the outcome and understood what was happening. Our procedure was intentional; this Liana never volunteered to evolve."

"Why?" Pietro defied, shuffling about the room. "Why not let her own people handle her? What do they expect us to do, tell her bedtime stories? We're not the poster children for experimentation results."

Wanda sighed, "They don't know how. They're not as mighty as you think, Pietro. Their organization was decimated a year ago, and the progress towards rebuilding any form of agency has been slow. They're a skeleton crew. They have no experience with enhanced humans other than those who have ingested serums or were experiments. We're the closest cases to Liana's predicament."

Pietro wished he could tell her to go alone, leave him behind, but he swore if he stayed another minute locked up in this room, he'd combust or run through a wall. "Alright," he consented, avoiding his twin's imploring gaze. Ruefully he shoved his feet into the standard issue boots he spotted most agents, such as Hill, wearing. The hospital offered clean sets of clothes: sweats and plain t-shirts. He recalled the mild relief of finding fresh utilities, among other things, when they arrived at Barton's house at the dead of night. He'd emerged from rebirth naked, forcing Selvig to lend him a polo shirt and slacks that were too short and too tight in all the wrong places. He missed his sneakers.

"Ready?" he asked, bouncing on the balls of his feet, eager to run again, even if it was just for a second.

Wanda rolled her eyes. "Go on ahead. I want to look over this. I'll meet you there." As soon as the last accented syllable left her lips, he was gone, dashing off in the blink of an eye.

* * *

Even with his speed, by the time he reached room 416, he found it deserted except for the incapacitated bodies of the attending medical staff. He located the room, foreboding settling into his stomach. The broken handcuffs that had restrained the patient, chaining her to the bed, were slick with warm blood. The trail ended there; surprisingly, there were no smears of blood anywhere else. How could one practically insane girl defeat an entire squadron of doctors and nurses? He'd personally tested the mettle of these medics; they'd activated the tracker bracelet on his ankle, also equipped with a shocking feature, without hesitation when he breezed by them in the beginning.

The answer was painfully obvious. Pietro sighed and headed to a computer console to review security footage. There, plain as day, was the culprit. The emblem emblazoned on their sleeve signified what danger they represented. He watched as the HYDRA operative stormed into the ward, quickly dispatching anyone who stood in his way. Then they easily subdued the struggling girl, removing her bloodied chains. Frowning, he rewound the video. After effortlessly taking down the medics, the operative strode purposefully down the hallway, his stride portraying his confidence and purpose. With a recognition that came only from knowing what one was looking for, he found the crazy girl's room.

Pietro ran his hands through his hair, winding his fingers in it and tugging hard. HYDRA went after the _girl._ He had firsthand experience with being on one of their tables. S.H.I.E.L.D. thought she was already broken? After HYDRA finished with her, she would be shattered, irreparable, the jagged shards of glass reduced to a fine powder.

He hadn't even formally officially proposed to join the Avengers, but here he was, back again, already doing their job. They lost one of their assets. Pietro smirked. He supposed it was only fair he get it back.

He intercepted Wanda on her way and scooped her up in his arms, taking off in the opposite direction, towards the stairwell. "Where are you going?" she cried.

He neglected to respond, partly because of his deep breathing, focusing on pushing, pushing, pushing, _faster, faster, faster._ There was a girl out there depending on someone to rescue her. The Maximoffs were up to the job.

* * *

 **Fun fact: Liana's room number, 416, comes from Quicksilver's first appearance in X-Men issue #4, and when he appears as a regular character and member of the Avengers in Avengers #16.**


	4. Part I: Chapter Three

**Chapter Three**

* * *

 _Darkness consumed her. She couldn't remember anything besides the suffocating hostility pressing in at all angles, robbing her of sense. The very concept of the darkness was paradoxical; to be dark, there had to be light. Yet there was nothing in this vast blackness. It was as if she was trapped . . . in a void._

 _No, not the void she feared. Pain, the only thing she could feel in this utter isolation, intermingled with the terrifying shadow cast over her, spreading a deep ache throughout her body. Sharp pricks of agony blinked in out like the twinkle of stars in the sky. Stars-she would never see stars again. They told her they would kill her once they obtained what information they wanted. Then came the needles. So many needles. To think she had ever been anxious about getting yearly immunizations. The anguish she felt before the black settled comfortably over her, like a numbing blanket of empty chill, bled into the space she now swam in. She had always been a strong swimmer, but she struggled to stay afloat in this infinite sea._

 _Suddenly a beam of light plunged into her nightly prison. She strained toward it as all around her the tendrils of blackness slithered away from the bright entity come to save her._

* * *

"Pietro!"

He glanced over his shoulder. A smirk sprung to his lips. "Hawkeye," he greeted. "Good to see you back in the game. How are you in the field without me to keep you on your toes?"

It was the first time he'd caught more than a fleeting glimpse of the man since leaving his house weeks ago. Wanda had left him in Laura and Clint's charge for a few weeks while she adjusted the Avengers to the concept of his revival and prepped for his arrival. Originally, the plan thrived in its glorious simplicity. It wasn't his preferred suggestion of randomly showing up in the middle of a battle ("You could jeopardize the whole mission doing that, Pietro.") with his signature smirk and a witty one-liner, but it was far less complicated than the complex process Wanda compromised on with them while he hid on a farm. To be honest though, he loved their farm. He hadn't experienced such a homely family atmosphere since the bombs rained down around their heads; having felt it, he yearned for the warm comfort a home provided. He couldn't begin to describe what cradling Nate in his arms felt like. At the mere thought of any of Barton's three children, the same fierce protectiveness he reserved for Wanda swelled up within him. Although Cooper pretended not to, Pietro just knew the kid had a soft spot for him. His utter incapability of refusing adorable Lila anything had him wrapped around her finger, something the little girl relished.

He had a feeling Widow taught her that.

The archer shook his head and jogged to catch up. "Have to say I still like your sister better, kid, though it's nice seeing you back," he chuckled.

Pietro shrugged. "That's normal; men who are intimidated by me usually prefer her company," he replied nonchalantly.

Clint slapped him on the back. "Don't get ahead of yourself."

They set off down the corridor in the direction of the canteen; Pietro enthusiastically anticipated eating food that wasn't exclusively provided by the hospital staff. He reminded himself to stay at a steady pace; it helped that Clint's height matched his and they both had long strides. The minutes dragged on as they exchanged mild banter and hearty, playful shoves. He noticed the other man avoided mentioning the events that transpired during the "Battle of Sokovia"-basically skirting around his death, just as they had done during every conversation since Clint took them in. Clint owed Pietro his life; Pietro wouldn't ever purposefully call on him to repay that debt, but it hung in the air. Maybe someday, the archer would return the favor. Hopefully not dying in the process-

"Whoa, get lost in your head? Didn't know you used that brain up there," joked Clint, holding the glass door to the canteen open. Pietro startled, zipping through as the other man released his hold. He followed the ex-sniper to the food line, grabbed a plate, and blindly piled it high with random selections of breads, meats, and greens. It felt like he'd been living on rations for so long, he'd forgotten what gorging on an exorbitant amount of variant, genuinely palatable food tasted like. Later, after he had achieved an overload on his taste buds and a stuffed, content feeling to his stomach that was strangely satisfying, he finally leaned back in his chair at the table Clint had chosen out of the dozens available.

"Ah, look who it is," declared the Widow, dropping into the seat across from him. Like Clint, she wore civilian clothes instead of her black cat-suit uniform. She leaned across Clint's lap and stole one of his fries, popping it into her mouth. The smirk on her plump red lips at the ensuing protests hitched Pietro's breath in his chest. Quickly he averted his eyes, concentrating on regulating his breathing. Maybe the Widow was a little old for him, and if Wanda's hints in conversation were interpreted correctly, she had a thing for the Hulk.

"Where'd you find this stray, Clint?" she teased in her gravelly voice.

"Oh, he was just wandering the compound. I think he's delusional. Get this: he believes he has what it takes to be an Avenger," taunted Clint.

Widow smiled warmly. "Good to have you back, Pietro. We could use your speed. Some of us are getting up there in age, not as sharp as we used to be." The redhead winked, inclining her head towards her partner.

"I'll make sure to relay your sentiments to Steve," retorted Clint, shoveling another spoonful of rice into his gaping maw of a food-hole. Pietro had sat and watched Clint consume twice as much as he had. His appetite was endless; Wanda would be shocked to learn her brother was no longer the reigning title holder of 'Bottomless Pit of a Stomach.'

"Anyway, Fury wants you debriefed over your rescue of the McKinnis girl," Widow announced. "You know, that was a pretty reckless move. Taking off on a solo mission without even informing anyone else of what happened. If HYDRA had gotten to you, we would have lost not one but three valuable people."

He folded his arms and glowered at the pair. He didn't appreciate the lecture. "But we found her," he insisted. "If we hadn't immediately pursued them, I wouldn't have been able to catch up before they strapped her down and stuck needles in her."

Clint muttered, "Looks like this one is going to be a joy to work with. The ones who disregard protocol always are."

Widow's steely gaze landed on Pietro. "Sometimes you have to make your own call," she replied aloud, eerily calm as she appraised him. The look she shared with Clint seemed sentimentally private; disturbed by the clearly emotional scene between the two, he averted his eyes.

They began a friendly conversation about Hawkeye's early return to duty due to the HYDRA break-in, cutting short some type of scheduled leave, so Pietro awkwardly excused himself. "I should check on Wanda," he said, depositing his dirty dishes and cutlery in their respective bins on his way out. Once he cleared the wide double doors, he freely navigated the mildly bustling corridors, weaving around the sprinkling of faculty travelling to the refectory as a silver streak.

He arrived outside his hospital room, bending to lace his boots again. Hopefully he could vacate his residency here soon.

"Brother," called Wanda, "are you here for Liana?" He lifted his head, hair swinging forward and blocking his vision. Wanda leaned out the door of the room adjacent to his own, hands in the midst of tying her hair up in a messy bun. A gentle smile adorned her features. Pietro reciprocated, rising to his feet.

"Ah, two birds with one stone." Pietro followed Wanda inside. "I wanted to check up on both of you. How is her progress?"

"I don't need checking up on, Pietro," Wanda stubbornly insisted. "I can handle myself." The unspoken lie between them: _I have been for the past six months while you were dead._ He winced. Wanda grasped his hand comfortingly, stroking her thumb over his white knuckles soothingly.

He redirected his attention to the limp body hooked to multiple machines with several IVs supplying various fluids. Ginger hair splayed over the checkered pillow. Her naturally pale skin had adopted a sickly pallor. The delicate features resembled a marble bust more than a living, breathing girl.

"It saddens me to see this abuse," commented Wanda softly. Once it was clear her gentle remark had won his attention, she retrieved the same tablet Hill gifted them with; her fingers flew over its surface as swiftly and elegantly as a pianist playing a piece they knew well. Gaze fixed to the unconscious body before them, Wanda handed him the device, ignoring his bemusement. He understood why; the comparison of the photograph on the screen to the physical girl before them answered any query he might have made as to his sister's sympathy.

The girl depicted in the photo resembled this version in the way a raggedy stray appeared one and the same with a house cat, but it was the marginal differences that begged attention. The candid shot captured her in the midst of conversation, leisurely walking through a garden and accompanied presumably by a friend. Picture Liana generally appeared more relaxed and innocent, from her expression to the way she carried herself. Despite having just eaten, Pietro's stomach growled in response to the observation that everything about Sleeping Liana had shrunken, most specifically her mass. In the photo, an easy smile adorned her freckled face, free of blemishes or bruises. Her complexion radiated a healthy glow, still porcelain but not as fragile as the ceramic. There was something about the eyes, though. The eyes provided the greatest evidence a drastic change had occurred.

He flipped back to the image they had originally been shown before ever encountering the girl or commandeering her rescue. The time stamp in the corner of her file's profile shot indicated it had been taken a few weeks ago; he assumed soon after she awoke from the coma Hill mentioned. He switched back and forth, cataloging the differences like he was playing one of those silly games in a child's coloring book. Consistently he found himself straying back to her eyes, struggling to identify the key component that made them so opposite.

He sucked in a breath sharply, the realization slapping him like a brick. In the older picture, where she was strolling happily through a jungle of blooms, joy poured from every orifice, but the telling point was how her eyes gleamed, how they shone with wonder, how _alive_ they were. Undiluted, pure contentedness not yet contaminated by the horror she would later face. Whereas in the fierce, _recent_ documentation, the 'after' picture-Pietro shuddered. Those green eyes burned with rage, but it was a cold fire, like frostbite, and all he could think was how _dead_ she looked. In stark contrast to the literal lifeless state of his corpse, bloodied by battle and sacrifice and a husk unwillingly abandoned, Liana's body remained functioning, yet the soul it housed had departed, leaving only the imprints of grief to direct it. He had seen that look in the other survivors of the bombings of his village. He had seen it in the men and women with whom he participated in the riots. For a time, he had seen it when he looked in a mirror, and he had fought to ensure Wanda never followed in his footsteps. _What was the extent of the damage inflicted?_

Then the eyes snapped open. Two brilliant orbs of emerald green pierced him with the intensity of their stare like twin daggers thrust into his heart in unison.

She did not look dead here. She looked _feral._ Startled, he dropped the tablet. It clattered to the floor and ended up kicked beneath the bed.

"Liana, it's alright," intervened Wanda. She sidled to his side, appearing in the girl's unwavering line of vision. Briefly the invalid's attention flickered. "Remember me? I'm Wanda. This is my brother, Pietro. You can trust him. He saved you," she coaxed.

"No," Liana croaked, glowering at his sister instead of him. "This isn't real. It's another illusion." A crack spider-webbed through the cesspools of simmering anger in her glossy eyes. Pietro glimpsed the familiar, frightened, broken creature cowering behind a wall of distrust and resentment. "You're messing with my head. He showed you to me. He said you would hurt me the minute I believed in you!" screamed Liana. Whimpering, she clutched her head and rocked back and forth.

Wanda tenderly touched Liana's stiff arm, but the girl instantly recoiled. Pietro leaped in front of his sister, providing a protective shield. Wanda fisted the fabric of her casual shirt, twisting the material that concealed her chest and therefore her heart in her long fingers. Anguish etched lines in her face. Pietro wrapped his arms around his twin, shrugging off his jacket and draping it over her shoulders. Slowly the shivering subsided. She pushed at his constraining arms, determination focused over his shoulder at the girl sniveling on the bed behind him. He reluctantly released his sister, hesitant to let her venture near the potentially volatile, unhinged person. _Enhanced_ person, even if she was currently unaware of her abilities.

 _"Jag lovar att vi menar inget_ _illa_ ,"1 Wanda cooed. Pietro blanched at the unfamiliar language. The effect on Liana was instantaneous, rendering her spell-bound, lax, and deflated. Her sobs hushed abruptly. She lifted her head from her knees, revealing puffy eyes and tear-stained cheeks.

"You speak Swedish?" inquired Liana.

"I have learned many languages since I met my friends here," Wanda responded, settling cautiously on the edge of the bed. "How is my accent?"

 _Pah_ , Pietro thought, _you just plucked it right out of her head_.

"Horrible. Your natural accent interferes. Where are you from?" she replied.

"Sokovia," interjected Pietro, uncomfortable with lurking in the background.

Liana's eyes narrowed dangerously. Her hands trembled in her lap. She never broke eye contact with him. "This is your brother?" she quietly asked Wanda. It was the quiver in her voice that alerted Pietro this was more than mere distrust. The quavering of her words bled with a hidden fear, concealed by thick, aloof walls. He wished he knew what Wanda had said to soothe her.

"He is my twin," Wanda confirmed.

Tentatively, Liana eased herself into a sitting position. Her gaze flicked down to where her hands rested in her lap. Slowly, expressionlessly, she lifted them in front of her face. The wobbling of her lower lip matched the violent trembling of her hands. Then she dropped them back to the bed as if discarding them, attention returning to the twins. "Your twin is fast," she said hesitantly, unsure.

Wanda nodded.

Fire lit the girl's eyes. _"He's the one!"_ she screeched.

Pietro jumped. Alarmed, Wanda backed away from the bed, gripping his hand tightly.

 _"You're supposed to be dead!"_ With a scream, she lunged for his throat.

* * *

1 "I promise that we mean no harm."


	5. Part I: Chapter Four

**Chapter Four**

* * *

Normally, people described the sudden rush of adrenaline pumping through their veins as transformative. Suddenly clarity envelops you. No longer do you stand gawking, paralyzed by fear or shock. You move, and you move fast, as your surroundings and the imminent dangerous situation at hand speeds up. You know what to do.

For Pietro, the world slowed down even more. He had ample time to figure out his course of action, yet he didn't use it. His powers thrummed ready in his veins. Impulse replaced reason. Instinct overrode sense. He was too fast for thought, and when he started running, the exhilaration was so addicting he couldn't stop. His reactions occurred lightning-fast, in the span of a second or less. His concerns were momentary and they translated into swift actions.

Pietro jerked out of the way, carrying Wanda a safe distance from the one-sided fight. He returned to the scene; his calculating eyes swept over Liana still in the process of completing her dive, a burning blood thirst gleaming in the insane jade eyes. He lurched forward, snatching the volatile girl out of the air. Pietro skidded to avoid crashing through the window, spinning on his heel with his arms locked around his would-be assassin's waist. He needed to get her away from the rest of these people in case she hurt someone. Rapidly remove her from the premises, if possible. An isolated place with no escape.

 _The roof._

He breezed by employees and agents, swiping key cards when necessary with nimble, experienced fingers. Once he burst through the stairwell, emerging into the crisp evening air, he unceremoniously dropped her. The hard smack of the back of her head impacting with the roof's gravel carpet failed to elicit remorse for his harsh deposit of her, in light of her repetitious bouts of madness. He severely doubted a _goose-egg_ could inflict _more_ harm. Rolling from her stomach to her back, Liana groaned; pride damaged, she painstakingly stifled the rest of the grating, raw grunts issuing from her throat through gritted teeth. Pietro observed her carefully, tracking every motion, no matter how innocuous it appeared, and focusing on the most miniscule details with an intense vigilance appropriate for a predator stalking its prey. He sunk into a defensive position once his suspicion she would resume her belligerent campaign appeared evident, a stance he tirelessly maintained during his hawk-like watch, prepared to interfere should Liana attempt any form of action.

She struggled to recapture the balance she needed to regain her feet, repeatedly crashing back to the ground with each failure. He would have found it amusing if not for the uncomfortable way it reminded him of the aftermath of the tussles instigated by the bored boys of the orphanage that quickly escalated into full-on brawls. More often that not, unchecked vents of anger left the smaller ones utterly beaten, unable to even crawl back to the corner they claimed as their sleep space. The aggressively victorious elders crowed with triumph at their trophy blankets. He'd been both in the time they spent there; winning those fights ensured his sister warmth in the brutal winter nights. He'd learned to resort to whatever methods necessary.

Agitated by the unwelcome recollection, he lapped the roof a few times to burn off the excess energy his irritation incited. Pausing to check Liana's progress, his heart climbed into his throat, and he flung himself to his knees in front of the prone, limp body curled precariously close to the edge. Without hesitation he dragged her a safe distance away, where he collapsed with their limbs slung together in a clumsy, boneless tangle. His fingertips dug into her ratted hair, searching for a bulge. When he excavated them from the nest of knotted tresses, he gulped. _Blood stained the pads of his fingers - Liana's blood._

 _I don't watch her for less than a minute and she sustains a serious head injury. I probably cracked her skull when I dumped her,_ he thought incredulously.

He nearly tossed her over the edge when she unexpectedly stirred in his lap. Gasping, Pietro scrambled backward. His heart pounded to the stacatto rhythym of his shock, eventually slowing with the concerned decrescendo. When he saw the blood, he assumed it symbolized a stamp of finality, provided evidence of her oncoming demise. He clearly didn't anticipate her waking up and rising onto her knees. He certainly never factored in that she would look at him and start crying.

Tears leaked from her eyes, but Pietro remained wary. He held his hands, palms out, in front of him in a placating gesture. _Damn it. What the hell did Wanda say to her in Swedish to calm her down?_

 _"Vänligen inte döda mig,"_ pleaded Liana. _"Jag vill inte dö." 1_

"I do not understand Swedish!" he shouted. "Are you praying?" he asked exasperatedly. He doubted she was vowing to end his life while sobbing.

Liana jolted. She stared at him; a horrified understanding dawned in her eyes as the hatred drained from them. She clasped her hands as tears splashed down her cheeks. The same gaze that bore him such ill-will now appeared haunted and confused. " _Du är inte honom._ You are not him." 2

"Who?" Pietro demanded.

Liana sucked in a deep breath, closing her eyes. "I'm so sorry. I-I'm haunted. I'm sorry," she mumbled. She muttered the apologies continuously until she started softly humming.

No matter how many times he shook her shoulders and shouted at her, she remained locked in some trance, still humming an eerie song that reverberated in his head, bouncing off the walls of his skull. Straining to listen induced a splitting headache. Eventually he abandoned his attempts to jar her from the daze; it reminded him far too much of one of his sister's fear visions, and if she was trapped inside her head, he wouldn't risk further brain damage by resorting to extreme measures in order to break her out. Really, he should just avoid strange women altogether.

Pietro studied her; was it meditation? He was completely lost at to what to do, but there was something about that melody that compelled him to _slow down and listen._

No. Screw this. He needed answers.

"No more singing," he announced, grabbing Liana by the arm and roughly hauling her to her feet. Her eyelids snapped open at the manhandling and she jerked her bony elbow back into his ribs. He grunted but didn't stagger or release his tight grip on her forearms. The setting sun behind him bathed her face in a soft glow; with the dying dusk gradually fading into starry twilight, every second their shadows shortened where they stretched out on the rooftop concrete. The heady evening air clung to his skin with unusual humidity, a cool weight in his lungs and layer of moisture on his face. He sucked in a breath and inhaled the perfume of the distant pines. Liana stilled in his arms, momentarily pausing her struggle to gaze over his shoulder, enamored with whatever she saw.

He snapped his fingers in her face to regain her attention. "Who is trying to hurt you?" he questioned urgently, recalling the vague 'him' with apparently murderous intentions toward her, whom she near fatally mistook him for.

Her eyes sharpened; with her fierce gaze she wielded them like knives levelled at his heart, poised to throw. "The man inside my head warned me about you and your sister. He claimed you were evil and that the brother in particular would hurt me. Kill me. The man said I couldn't trust the Avengers, that they were deceitful and traitorous," she elaborated through gritted teeth.

Pietro tilted his head. "What made you change your mind?"

Her lips pursed, she replied, "I realized you didn't match up."

He frowned, affronted with the comparison. "Is that a good or bad thing?" he responded eventually, eyebrows furrowed quizzically in a lack of comprehension.

Liana might have smirked, but with her shaking, he couldn't distinguish her faint expression. She patted him on the shoulder and then wrenched herself away, swiftly moving towards the stairwell where Wanda hovered, dressed for battle in her signature costume and eyes bleeding red, misty tendrils of power curling around her fingers. As Liana approached, the tendrils threaded into a rope that coiled around her.

 _"My fears thrive in my mind; you don't need to seek them out and show them to me: I am familiar with them already."_ Instantly, what Pietro liked to think of as magic, since it was a far simpler concept to grasp than neuro-whatever, dissipated. The crimson faded from his sister's eyes, and though he couldn't see her face, the relieved slump of Liana's shoulders implied Wanda had released her grip on the other girl's mind. However, it was his sister that staggered backward, rather than Liana.

 _3 "Du var trassligt i trådar av sinnessjukdom, men nu är du fri, som om du var aldrig arg alls,"_ gasped Wanda. Pietro groaned. Not the Swedish again. Yet at the surprise skittering across his sister's face, he guessed she hadn't intentionally spoken in the foreign language.

"I am sorry for any harm that came to your family because of me," Liana apologized, touching Wanda's arm. Concentration pinched her face. "You are right. It's like it's just gone. You can manipulate people's fears, right? Control their minds? I was so afraid - and my fear is here - but where did the madness go?"

"It's alright now," Wanda cooed, ignoring the girl's imploring gaze and urgent questions, extending a hand to Liana. "You're with the Avengers. You're safe. We won't let anyone hurt you, no matter what the man in your head said. And my brother is a teddy bear beneath his lack of charm once you get to know him."

What? She was going to kill him (that would be twice now), and they were forgiving her this easy? (It didn't matter that the odds of the scrawny hundred pound invalid besting him were relatively zero.)

"I am not!" Pietro protested, storming over. "And what do you mean, 'lack of charm'? Who sweet-talked the matron into letting you keep that scruffy cat or convinced the Sister in charge of meals that your stomach was hurting, and it would feel better if you could have one more slice of cake?"

"That sounds more like coercion than charm," quipped Liana.

Wanda smiled smugly, "Pietro has always had trouble with women." The teasing glint to her eye did little to tamper down his indignant irritation.

 _I'm only poking fun, brother. I mean no harm,_ floated Wanda's voice through his mind, her gentle touch so familiar he hardly noticed its presence. _Don't be angry with me._

He sighed, feeling himself deflate. The tension in his metaphorical rubber band of a temper dissolved, the elastic relaxing. _Of course I'm not angry. When am I ever angry with you?_

 _Often,_ chuckled Wanda, _but you never hold a grudge against me or my actions, and you always forgive me._

 _True,_ he reluctantly admitted. _Don't get cocky or I may withhold my forgiveness. Arrogance suits me far better. Cunning is more your forte._

 _Oh, that reminds me-Steve wanted me to speak with you about your 'arrogance.' If you join the Avengers, they have to be able to rely on and trust you, and apparently they've expressed trouble in doing so when you antagonize them._

 _. . . . You trust me._

 _Never doubt that, Pietro. But this isn't my call; please, do this for me. They are good people. I thought we wanted to build a life here._

 _You already have a life; I'm the one alone, who's getting in the way._ The thought slipped past his filter unknowingly, reaching Wanda's subconscious probing link before he could latch on and drag it back. Hurt rippled between them, and he felt her start to retreat. Desperately he grabbed for the last wispy tendrils like a child attempting to capture a butterfly. He opened his cupped hands to inspect his triumph only to find that the precious creature had slipped right through his fingers. He lifted his gaze from his empty hands. Wanda had disappeared from the physical plane also.

The constant buzz of kinetic energy he gave off sparked with a spasm, reacting to the change in his mood. The usual vibration veered sharply, spiking upward, responding to the self-deprecating anger at accidentally pushing his sister away. From the heat of the friction of his molecules vibrating at top speeds, he knew he must be a solitary blur on the lonely rooftop, a disturbance in the air that smeared the horizon, until his feet were moving and he ran down the side of the building, heading for the track that wrapped around the facility and weaved through the woods.

* * *

After being miraculously dismissed from the facility's medical wing following her head scan, Lian obediently followed Wanda through the sterile hallways, respectfully avoiding engaging the other girl in conversation until she mastered her composure, obviously still shaken by the freaky twin telepathy thing. Lian shuddered, wrapping her arms around herself as if to ward off the chill. Most likely, the chill that infused her bones with lingering icy cold and prickled her skin with goosebumps was nonexistent. She tended to run cold; during her childhood her grandmother used to worry about bad blood circulation and relentlessly hover, bundling the child Lian in several layers and sitting her to thaw in front of the fire while her siblings and cousins got to run about the house naked, soaking wet from melted snow. Maybe that had made her dependable on outside sources for heat; Lian eventually shrugged. In a family of scientists, she was the black sheep.

They reached the elevator bank. "You are cold," stated Wanda, the matter-of-fact firmness to her tone leaving no room for denial.

Lian blinked. She'd been occupied theorizing on the easiest strategy to count the ceiling tiles in the elevator once it arrived. However, the severity to the hero's voice, she heard just fine. She followed Wanda's gaze down where it was trained on her arms folded over her chest. Figuring it had something to do with her current stance, she guessed, "Yes?"

She hoped the famed female Avenger hadn't asked if she wanted to die.

Without any warning, a sharp pain flared in her mind, like something had pinched her brain, alerting every neuron to fire off every stimuli in order to combat the strange occurrence. As soon as the sparks flared, a heavy, numbing weight settled over them like a shock blanket, extinguishing their mission. An image of a door shutting on the alarmed surprise popped into her head. Gentle probing followed, like a tickling at her thoughts. Lian's eyes snapped open; she was unaware she had closed them. The feather-light touch vanished, slinking out the same way it came in: an undetectable means.

Wanda smiled encouragingly at her; the friendly, supportive smile she sported appeared identical to the honest expression that exuded trustworthiness she wore when crooning to Lian in Swedish an hour earlier, though it certainly felt like days. Yet after feeling the unexpected invasion, it seemed calculated and predatory now. Lian edged away warily. She finally attained some form of clarity after weeks of raging within the confines of a hospital room; the newfound freedom of her mind from the vice-like choking grip of the man was too precious and sweet to risk being tainted. To allow someone _else_ in was to be deprived of oxygen, once again taste it after so long without, and then light a cigarette.

"Do not be afraid. I promise, my intentions are to help and heal, if I can. I won't manipulate you like he did," assured Wanda, spreading her hands as if to show she wasn't hiding anything behind her back.

That didn't necessarily mean there were no tricks left up her sleeves.

Lian averted her eyes and fiddled with the hem of her shirt. "Before . . . Before I let anyone into my head, I would like to take some time to adjust. To find my center. I would appreciate your respect of my wishes," she requested, words icy with a polite and partially apologetic distance. Her gaze flicked up to briefly meet the other woman's intense inquisitive stare. A wry smile curving her lips, Lian gestured to her temple. "It's such a mess. I want to try untangling the strings before tackling the knots."

Wanda twitched. It was a subtle movement, seemingly unprovoked, though Lian wondered if the metaphorical reference had struck a chord.

"That is a good plan," replied Wanda. "I wish you the best of luck."

Lian tilted her head, her brow furrowing. "You say that like you say goodbye," she accused.

The sleek steel doors of the elevator slid open. A stream of people filed out. Lian smiled ruefully at how some remained buried in their work, heads an inch from the paper they were reading, even as they stumbled along after their associates. It reminded her of herself a year ago: frantic, nervous, awkward little IT girl with a motor mouth and a caffeine addiction, overly-eager and a workaholic. Once everyone exited, she and Wanda stepped inside, the doors closing behind them, leaving them alone once more. Lian didn't miss how Wanda used the opportunity to avoid responding, but she didn't call her on it. It wasn't Lian's place, anyway. Still, she would be unlikely to forget the conversation. After undergoing several scans and typing in a few codes, the elevator began its ascent. Lian quickly grew bored of watching the numbers change.

"So, what is this place?"

"The 'New Avengers Training Facility,' or at least, that's what it says on the sign out front," replied Wanda. "Ultron damaged Avengers Tower, so Stark built here, relocated team. After modifications to the living quarters, often we call it the Mansion. Big, yes, like mansion?"

Lian nodded, tilting her head. "That makes sense. But why was I brought here? The doctors told me . . . They said there was a lab accident."

Wanda visibly hesitated before answering, "Our scientists played a part in the lab project. Stark sponsored it." She rolled her eyes. "Your health alarmed ours, so they moved you here to provide optimal care."

"That's what the doctors said, but it sounds . . . fishy. You wouldn't happen to know anything more, would you?" Lian ventured, eyes narrowing as Wanda subtly shifted so they were no longer facing each other.

"No," Wanda said coolly. "That's all."

Lian pursed her lips and folded her arms. "Well, thanks for sharing what you did." Another suspicious term of her extended medically-based stay here occurred to her. "Why did Dr. Jeffries and Ms. Hill want you and your brother to speak with me?" she inquired.

Wanda stiffened. "You knew we were coming to see you?" she questioned, something akin to incredulity and suspicion coloring her words.

Lian bobbed her head. "Yeah, they cancelled my usual interrogation session with the psychologist guy because they said I was expecting visitors. I asked who and they figured there was no harm in telling me since I was already crazy, so they just said the Maximoffs. That's your last name, right? Wanda Maximoff? I heard about you in the newsfeed once when the nurses had the lobby T.V. volume too loud. They're calling you the Scarlet Witch."

"They knew we were coming," breathed Wanda.

Lian frowned. "I mean, they were the ones who set it up, so of course they did. Dr. Jeffries approached Ms. Hill about contacting the two of you. All the staff usually working in that wing knew. Half of them took off; either they were scared of you, or they assumed the extra security and monitoring wouldn't be needed if I was under your watch."

"They planned it," Wanda muttered, squeezing her eyes tightly closed.

"You okay?" Lian lightly touched her shoulder.

Wanda flinched from the touch. "Spies are spies are spies. He didn't break in, he was let in," she mumbled under her breath.

Lian froze, her heart jolting into her throat. Suddenly she partially understood Wanda's ramblings. The man who kidnapped her - she remembered little of the attack besides the shouts, but the ease with which the abduction went under way mocked the institution it occurred in. A facility designed to house superheroes would surely be under the strictest of security. A blurry image floated before her eyes, immersing her once more in the standard hospital room where she'd spent the past two weeks locked in a state of perpetual paranoia and madness that tinted everything a bloody scarlet. That same haze returned, yet it did not infect every facet of the moment, dulling the details of the scene, as it had when she originally lived through it.

 _Neither alarms flashed nor sirens blared; the pleas of the staff outside were the only indication of something terribly amiss. The screams had violently triggered a panic attack; the room spun as she thrashed in her restraints. By the time her own frightened yelps subsided into anxious whimpers, copper permeated the air and infused into it the pungent lingering scent of fear. Voice hoarse and throat raw, she could not cry out as the door slid open on hydraulic hinges. The glimpse of a knife protruding from the electronic sensor stole what little breath her weak lungs managed to greedily suck in; her heart stuttered in her chest, sending the countless machines hooked to her hysterically crying out. A figure shrouded in the darkness of the hallways beyond lurked at the threshold. Slowly they emerged into the stark bright white of her room, revealing piece by piece their identity - or lack thereof. The black balaclava concealed everything but the gleaming pitch eyes and crooked nose. The only exposed skin was that of the face; the man dressed as if to mimic the darkest night, devoid of star or moon. Varied holstered weapons completed the bulky garb. Beneath the flexible weave of the balaclava, the assailant's mouth twitched into a smirk. All at once, her insanity outstretching nimble fingers to reclaim her, the man morphed into a wraith with claws the length of her arm. His shadow stretched, climbing the wall and towering over her. His mouth peeled open in a snarl, fangs snapping and dripping venom, a gaping maw not even close to sated by the blood of its enemies._

 _In the memory, Lian's breaths came in short, irregular gasps. With each gasp of oxygen, the shadow shrunk, as did the beast, transforming back into the human. Seeking to center herself to evade another panic attack in such dangerous circumstances, she stared at the white wall behind his head. Void of any character, it provided an anchor; in its blankness, there was nothing to focus on but its emptiness. No conflicting designs, patterns, outcomes, or ideals, and no fate hovering on the brink of the next second, dependent on every action the wall committed. There was no worry for the wall. It was stationary, lifeless. One thing. Lian inhaled. She, altogether, was one thing comprised of a million other little things, but she was unquestionably one whole._

 _Her gaze returned to the man; his smirk died at her restored composure, and he marched forward in an angry, determined stride. She scrambled up the bed, tugging uselessly at the restraints, her hands slick with the congealed blood from where they'd sliced open her fragile skin while she struggled. Her vision swum as he shoved her hard; black spots dappled her sight, so she missed how he managed to break the handcuffs. Then he tore away the tubes and probes attached to her. Immediately she felt dizzy without them. With as much strength as a rag doll, she could do little to prevent him jerking her up and flinging her like a sack of potatoes over his shoulder, except beat her loose fists into his back and dig her toes into the bullet proof vest protecting his organs, as he strode purposefully but casually down the hallway. He might have chuckled, but the sharp prick of a needle at her neck sent her tumbling head over heels into the abyss._

Lian surfaced from the dim recollection, no longer dulled by insanity but rich in the emotional influence of her perspective. Wanda's hand gripped her forearm and crimson eyes met her own green pair. Lian refrained from speaking against the mental invasion. She waited patiently, oddly serene, as Wanda diligently worked, plucking the vague impressions she'd received in moments of waking from her collection of remembrances and exploring them further.

 _As if back in that second, Lian swore she felt the graze of the rough textured armor beneath her hands as they slapped against the broad planes of her abductor's back. The constant jarring produced by his brisk pace that reverberated through her bones. The large, gloved hand cupping the back of her knee. Biting chill on her bare skin courtesy of the winter wind blowing, the whipping of her wayward hair loosening the greasy blindfold. Then after humidity and a dim, mechanical voice accompanied by harsh grating tones, regulated air and a second needle. Exchange of hands._

Wanda withdrew from her mind abruptly; Lian's senses immediately lost the crisp clarity of the past, anchoring themselves in the current time. Her temples throbbed now that Wanda had receded. Groaning, she pinched her eyes shut and massaged the pained area.

"Killer mindbender," she grumbled.

Wanda chuckled, a breathy amused little two-note snort conveying her amusement at something she had grown accustomed to long ago, like Lian was only on the cusp of understanding an inside joke. Lian cracked open an eye in order to properly aim her glare.

"You'll get used to it," Wanda reassured confidently.

Will I be here long enough to get used to it?

"I'm assuming so; I doubt they would've stuck me in charge of you if they planned on shipping you out anytime soon," Wanda replied aloud. She winced at the intensified scowl. "I apologize, your thoughts are loud and it's natural for my mind to wander to others'. Everyone besides Clint and Dr. Selvig has no problem with it."

Lian waved a hand dismissively, still clutching at her head. Distractedly she gestured to the ceiling of the elevator car. "How long until we get to the right floor?" she complained. "This is _so_ slow."

Wanda smirked as the panel displaying the floor number flashed red and the doors slid apart. Lian followed her out. "You might want to open your eyes for this," warned Wanda.

Lian lifted her eyes, and the change was instantaneous. As her eyes bugged out, a gasp escaped her parted lips, which then promptly fell open entirely. She blinked furiously, fiercely hoping the sight before her wasn't another dream/pain-med hallucination. Arranged in a semi-circle before her were the world's most recent heroic icons, outfitted in a mixture between everyday clothes and their epic costumes. Wanda stepped forward and joined them, and only then did Lian giddily realize the woman was wearing her own signature ensemble.

 _Holy shit,_ she thought, _I'm in a room of superheroes. I'm standing in front of the goddamn Avengers._

"Welcome to New York, sweetheart."

* * *

1 "Please don't kill me." "I don't want to die."

2 "You are not him."

3 "You were tangled in the threads of insanity, but now you are free, as if you were never angry at all."

 **AN: I hope the Swedish is right? I apologize in advance to any Swedes or to anyone who speaks the language if it isn't; it's Bing translator's fault. Also, I've decided this is going to be a fully-fledged AU, though ground zero will still be the MCU. Many, and I mean many, liberties will be taken. These elements probably won't show up for a while, but feel free to clear out now if what you're looking for, that is not. *cough* I appreciate any reviews of any form. *cough***


	6. Part I: Chapter Five

**Chapter Five**

* * *

Faced with such august company, words fled Lian in her panic to think of a suitable response to the amused greeting courtesy of Stark. Recognition suddenly burst in her brain, and she narrowed her eyes. Her tunnel vision on Tony neglected to include the rest of the assembled heroes, who regarded her coolly with a skeptical wariness. A wide grin split her cheeks as she surged forward to embrace the philanthropic billionaire. He chuckled, wrapping one arm around her back firmly and adjusting the 'shades she knocked askew with his free hand. Once Lian reluctantly released him, the beaming smile slid from her flushed features.

"Coma, huh?" she said, a sad smile gracing her reddened face.

Tony's face drooped with his attempt at a comforting smile. The lines of weariness and fatigue appeared more pronounced than ever. The usual swagger lowered a notch. "Hey, don't expect any pity from me, Heinz 57. We told you to stick with computers, that science wasn't your playground, but you didn't listen to us, choosing to follow your pathetic little dream of 'following in your family's career footsteps' and got yourself blown up," he told her, raising his hands in a clear gesture that read as 'I'm not touching that'. Lian rolled her eyes. "You're lucky I didn't feel like training any other IT pup to memorize my palette, McKinnis. It's thanks to me you spent your coma in luxury."

Lian touched his arm, losing her despondency marginally. "Thank you, Tony. I'm grateful for your soft spot for me." A teasing grin pulled at her lips.

He shook his head and insisted adamantly, "It's not a soft spot. You're Pepper's god-daughter. I've got to stay in the woman's good graces somehow." He winked and slung an arm around her shoulders. "Let me introduce you to my fondest friends here, McKinnis," he offered, stepping back and waving his arm down the lineup of Avengers. "I came in to check up on the system after your visitor earlier today, and I stopped by the dormitory when I heard you were up and about, parading around with Witchy Woo and Frankenstein."

"Frankenstein?" Lian muttered as he steered her towards the beginning of the lineup and halted in front of a familiar public icon, Colonel Rhodes. The pilot of the other Iron Man suit leaned casually against the back of the coach in regular clothes. Lian hid her disappointment at the lack of the famous peace-keeping armor; she never seemed able to catch Tony wearing one of his suits either.

"Witchy Woo's brother," clarified Tony, "came back from the dead. I'd be careful around that one, Heinz. Anyway, this is my pal, Rhodey. I'm sure you've met him at a company Christmas party or function or something. Still, he warrants a grand intro by yours truly, since he's a part of this ragtag team now. What are you going by nowadays, Rhodey? War Machine or Iron Patriot? Don't you think Iron Patriot is lame, McKinnis?"

Not wishing to insult the man like Tony naturally did in jest, Lian squirmed. "Maybe a bit too passive," she input, avoiding straightforward slams. Tony glowered at her, so she sighed and quit waffling. "Yeah, War Machine is definitely cooler. Who cares about the politicians or government sanctions? Captain America is all the patriotism the country needs."

Rhodey laughed, offering his hand. Lian shook it firmly. "Don't ever be afraid to give Tony a piece of your mind," he advised. "He won't spare you any sugar-coating."

Lian smirked. "If he gets out of hand, I'm sure Pepper would appreciate an anonymous tip and whip him into shape."

Tony's fingers dug painfully into her shoulder as he steered her to the next Avenger waiting patiently for an individual hailing. Perhaps the newest mystical figure and one of the most note-worthy characters, Vision struck a magnificent if imposing picture. The human face seemed to contradict the red hue of the synthetic metallic "skin". Lian resisted a geeky squeal at seeing his costume up close. She had only glimpsed a photograph of the android on the cover of a magazine a nurse had been lazily flipping through, and it didn't do the design justice. She wondered what material the translucent yellow cape was made from.

"It is a pleasure to meet a fellow progeny of Stark that has not strayed from the light," said Vision, nodding his head.

Lian's eyebrows shot up her forehead. She blinked at Tony, who surprisingly wasn't nonplussed by the remark. "Vision is the brainchild of me and Banner who was birthed by Dr. Cho's Cradle and Thor's lightning," Tony explained, though it only left Lian reeling rather than relieved of her confusion, her curiosity far from sated.

"Moving on to the self-dubbed _'Falcon,'_ " announced Tony, landing her in front of a dark-skinned man outfitted with mechanical gear. Were those . . . wings on his arms? Falcon removed his tinted goggles from his eyes to scrutinize the redheaded runt under Tony's wing.

"Sam Wilson," added Falcon. "The whole world knows my identity anyway. You must be Jumper."

 _Jumper?_

Wanda appeared at Lian's side, hooking her long fingers around the un-powered girl's elbow and towing her away while Tony seemed to berate Sam in a low tone inaudible to Lian as Wanda dragged her off.

"Why did he call me that?" she whispered. Wanda said nothing, depositing her in front of Captain America.

"It's an honor to meet you, sir," Lian said, offering a bashful smile. Despite Tony's frequent rants about the soldier, you could tell the eccentric inventor begrudged him a certain degree of respect. Lian couldn't help but be in awe of this flesh and blood legend her maternal grandmother used to so often tell her about during visits.

"No 'sir,'" the Captain replied with a smile Lian wasn't sure was genuine. It seemed too fabricated to be real, yet practiced often enough it was nearly convincing. Was he hiding something? Did he distrust her and thus hold her at a distance? Or was he accustomed to the adoring fan routine and annoyed by it? Perhaps it was simply a component to the overall stiff mien he sported, a side effect of serving as a soldier for most of his life. "You'll make me feel as old as I am."

"You're spritely for an old fellow," Tony commented, sidling up to the two girls' side once more. "If you feel arthritis coming on, don't hesitate to tell us, Cap. We can't have you incapacitated by gout and joint pain in the middle of a mission."

"I'm not the one who retired," he countered rapid-fire. Lian observed the exchange with a degree of whimsical amusement, the friendly banter passing back and forth like a platter of food between the two men, singing to her of times long past, lost forever to the netherworld of the beyond, the memory tainted by grief and swimming in nostalgia.

Even if the situation should ever be repeated again, they would never play the same roles; despite the niggling, shadowed, persistent inkling in the back of her mind that she was more now than she was before, the daunting task of attempting to fill her own shoes uniquely resembled drowning. The sad rumination that she couldn't live up to her own hard earned reputation and that her old life had gone down the drain with the last few months spent in a coma ate away at her. The consequences of her reckless naivety manifested clearly in her current and previous states. Looking in the mirror consistently reminded her of the severe life changes that recently occurred, all too evident in the subtly drastic physical alterations.

Tony pinched her pallid cheek, jarring her from her bitter contemplations. "She's a dreamer, this one. Always has her head in the clouds. She's devoted though; you should see her once she gets going on something. Phew, glad you're taking her out of my hands this time. Whip her into shape and she'll be like a puppy. That is, if puppies kicked ass. You know, we should do that. Train puppies. To kick ass. The Pet Avengers. One should totally be named Lockjaw. And Lian can be a part of it," he rambled.

The one thing Lian managed to latch onto out of Tony's speech was the idea of an Avengers team composed of dogs; everything else, including the wayward compliments, flitted away as if caught on an errant breeze or the delicate wings of a butterfly. She caught the name 'Lockjaw.'

"No, we are definitely not starting an animal shelter, Tony," Cap denied sternly. "As for Miss McKinnis . . . Her stay is temporary until she _heals_." Lian's eyes narrowed involuntarily as her mind leaped from frilly thoughts of cute dog costumes to suspicious analyzing of the Captain's words. She frowned, replaying his voice in her head. He had enunciated 'heal' differently, put a strained emphasis on that particular word. Racking her brains, she couldn't find any other instances for reference in which the super soldier arose caution.

No, not the Captain.

Tony. Falcon. When Falcon called her Jumper, Tony immediately removed Lian from the discussion in order to carry on a private conversation, or what appeared more as a scolding, with the flight-enabled hero. Falcon said something she wasn't supposed to hear. Was it that name, Jumper? Was it classified information, a code word? Amidst her reflexive lightning deductions, Lian also questioned why she received such a prestigious honor as meeting the Avengers in person; not like a welcoming party, because it clearly wasn't, but more of a task or induction.

A hand clasped her own, a comforting gesture few ever bestowed on Lian. She was jolted not to the present, but the last time anyone performed the reassuring, casual movement. Devon Parlay, one of her best friends, had gripped her hand until both of their arms went numb from lack of blood circulation, so tight was his hold. They were huddling together in the ER waiting room, keeping the nightly vigil while Emily Hawthorne underwent surgery to repair her collapsed lung. Before that, the last instance Lian recalled was her late fiancé, Oliver, and perhaps on occasion another dead friend, Kesha Rollings. Devon was the only one left who knew her well enough to know that a physical tether helped relieve stress, providing an anchor to focus on instead of her anxiety. Lian stirred slightly to glance down at her right hand, clutched by Wanda's left. Had she sensed it? Lian's father often described her oncoming panic attacks as clearly perceivable to the average eye; the inner turmoil rolled off her in waves, the air smelled different, crackling with the electricity of her emotion, like an impending storm.

"Thank you," Lian mouthed. Wanda nodded, her mouth twitching in what might have been a smile.

"Where's our lovely Natasha?" Tony's question signaled the end of his and Cap's debate.

"She took a few days of leave to spend time with Barton and his family," explained Cap. He folded his arms, the corner of his mouth tilting down in what on other men would have been called a scowl. The word sounded too harsh for the supposedly moralistic leader of Earth's Mightiest Heroes.

"Who's Barton?" Lian blurted. The name sounded distinctly familiar, yet she couldn't pin the relation.

As her employer and later friend for several years, Tony expected her curious outbursts. Captain Rogers, however, startled, unprepared for the simple inquiry. Everyone around knew all of their identities and were trusted associates. This strange girl wavered on the line of ally or foe.

"Hawkeye," elucidated Wanda. She mimed firing an arrow.

"The archer," Lian recognized eagerly.

"Yes, yes, our beloved Legolas," Tony said dismissively. He strolled over to the bar tucked into the far corner of what appeared to be the lounge. He returned with a tumbler of amber liquid, offering the decanter to Lian. Rogers deftly plucked it from her loose hold, casting a disapproving look on both.

"But what did Falcon mean by 'Jumper'? What's going on? Why am I _really_ here? I don't mean my health, though I appreciate the apparent concern," Lian persisted. She frowned, massaging her temples. "Besides, I thought the government wanted to shut you guys down after that explosion-"

"They saw reason," interjected the Captain.

Her eyes widened. "You didn't, like, threaten to kill them, did you?"

"No," Rhodes hurriedly assured, "there were opposing parties regarding our involvement in solving planetary conflict. We settled the issue. Our job's to protect the people, not destroy them."

"I think that's enough excitement for you today, Heinz," Tony announced, ruffling Lian's hair with his free hand. She was painfully aware he was deflecting her questions. "Getting kidnapped, being rescued, freaking out and making death threats on a roof, meeting these swell senior citizens - all without a proper meal other than the insubstantial nutrients in your old IV. Witchy, be a dear: feed her and then tuck her into bed. Might want to read a bed time story while you're at it." He winked at Lian, sipping his alcohol as Wanda entertained them with a supply of various expletives in an amalgam of languages. A nasty Swedish curse wandered into Lian's mind; Wanda snatched it and launched it at Tony. Lian winced, as did he, recognizing the oath. As Wanda dragged her off, Tony smirked and wiggled his fingers. She opened her mouth to demand he deliver her sentiments to Pepper and her family, but Wanda jerked her around the corner and the arrogant iron man vanished from view.

* * *

Despite her promise not to, Lian suspected Wanda had poked around in her head anyway. There was no way she could've guessed, psychic or not, that Lian's comfort food was beef stew and hot apple cider.

"Thanks," Lian said, taking a sip of cider. The steam wafted up from the cup, wreathing her face in thin smoke that lent her a wraith-like appearance.

Wanda sat in the wicker chair in the corner of the room. Her long fingers wrapped around a ceramic mug, she stooped over it, bliss painted on her face. She opened bleary, dazed eyes when Lian spoke. It took more than a second for her to compute the words. "You are welcome," Wanda replied. "I thought it would be better if I retrieved our meal alone, so you would not have to meet more people."

"I appreciate that," chuckled Lian. "I'm horrible at first impressions. It was at least a year before Tony liked me."

Wanda tilted her head. "How do you know Stark?" she inquired.

"I work for Stark Industries - well, I did. I graduated MIT early a few years after Pepper Potts took over the company. Pepper's my godmother, so she got me a job in the IT department. I like to think she was willing to hire me because she knew she could trust me, rather than getting special treatment since she's practically my aunt. I'm also Pepper's personal Tech whenever there are problems she can't or doesn't have the time to fix herself. She's really a resourceful, brilliant woman. That's why when I heard the office rumors that she had a thing going on with the boss, I asked her about it _after_ work hours. I didn't think he was good enough for her; Tony can be a jerk sometimes, but he's good at heart, and he really cares about Pepper. Anyway, it took both of us a while to warm up to each other." Lian's smile died once she saw the brimming anger in Wanda's eyes. All of the Maximoff's features seemed to darken with her rage.

"You were involved with Stark's company? With the missiles that fired on my people, _which killed my parents?_ " Wanda thundered. Her eyes glowed as red as the blood she was out for, and Lian suddenly choked. She gasped for air but none reached her. Scrabbling at her throat, which felt tighter and more constricted every second, she stared at Wanda in horror through watering eyes. She shook her head fervently. Soon black spots dappled her vision. She tipped sideways, crashing to the floor. Her head thudded against it; Wanda loomed over her, the red mist hissing and buzzing. Splitting pain pierced her mind. Lian's eyes fluttered closed, and she was gone.

* * *

A cold hand stroked through her hair, coaxing her back to consciousness. Lian reluctantly opened her eyes. The hand retracted from her hair, robbing her of the comfort the steady contact provided. Her vision swam, geometric shapes blurring into amorphous blobs.

"I am sorry, Liana," murmured a voice directly beside her ear. She determined the apology sincere by the sorrow bleeding into the voice. Too drowsy to question what preceded the gentle tone, she simply bobbed her chin once in a sleepy nod of acceptance.

"S'okay," she rasped. Her throat ached, preventing further speech. Still, she felt it was important to reassure this person that their remorse was unnecessary; she forgave them.

"The pain meds should wear off soon," continued the same voice. "The damage I inflicted should be healed."

Lian squirmed.

"I allowed my rage to control me, just as I did with Ultron. The same old demons I cannot exorcise. I may never fully trust Stark, but you, Liana, are innocent, and I hurt you in an attempt to hurt him. I'm sorry."

Squinting, she twisted her head to glimpse the speaker, a blurry female form she managed to identify as Wanda by the red attire she perceived as a crimson stroke and the brown tresses that were mahogany streaks. "'s nah Liana. Jus' Lian," she corrected.

Wanda chuckled. "At least I know you will be okay."

After a solid minute of blindly fumbling, Lian found Wanda's hand and held it between both of her own. "Will . . . you?" she croaked.

"Will I what?"

"Be . . . okay?"

Lian waited for the response, the confirmation that never came. Eventually Wanda sighed. Her fingers twitched within Lian's, but the bedridden girl refused to let go. "I don't know," Wanda finally answered. "But maybe I don't need to be okay. I can just be."

Lian didn't need to speak, and Wanda didn't need to read her mind to know the message her intense gaze conveyed with the subtlest of gestures. _What kind of life is that?_

A rueful smile alit on Wanda's lips. A breathy chortle escaped her, contrasting her usual hearty, throaty, belly-aching rumble. "Why is that I feel like I already know you?"

Lian shrugged, reciprocating the smile. "Ba' th'ng?"

Wanda hesitated before shaking her head. "We're a pair, you and I. You try to kill my brother, and I strangle you."

Lian's eyebrows furrowed, drawing into a tight, stern line on her brow. Sweat beaded on her upper lip and hairline at the exertion struggling to speak put on her weakened body. "Strangle me?" she coughed out.

Wanda avoided answering by twitching the bed's duvet up to her chin, like a mother tucking in her child. Smoothing the creases in the blanket out expertly, the twin kept her eyes averted. Lian settled into the pillows, content to sink into a hopefully restful, natural slumber, unlike the nightmare-plagued naps or artificially induced sleeps in the hospital. She glanced at the left hand wall, primarily glass. The full windows displayed a spectacular view of the night sky; besides her rooftop excursion, during which she hadn't had an opportunity to properly appreciate the clear view, she hadn't seen the outside world in months. It was no wonder her skin lost its faint tan, rendering her wan and sickly white.

Night descended, a sable curtain falling for its hem to pool upon the earth in indigo seas, to drape over forests with so thick a canopy no light could pierce the intricate weave of the uppermost tree boughs. The luminescent iridescent flowers of the stars blossomed upon the tapestry, pinprick blooms of pure, unadulterated light sewn into Night's cloak. The constellations of her features shimmered, and the crown jewel of her cosmic circlet hung on her brow, its distant, cold glow a guiding force, a watchful guardian. It dared to breach the sparse woods surrounding the facility, and set the grounds awash in brilliant moonlight.

Lian exhaled sleepily, eyes still fixated on the captivating enchantment cast upon this side of the earth's face. Somehow, it was different to catching a glimpse of a few cloudy twinkles, the hazy sky choked by smog in the big city, or watching the dark waters lapping at the horizon on the beach in Malibu. It transported her to nights spent lounging on the grass in the back yard while her sisters fought over the telescope, yet it surpassed even the dimmed beauty of those moments. It seemed as if she'd never witnessed a clearer night, and the clarity didn't pertain singularly to the night landscape.

This wasn't a temporary stay. Lian wasn't going home. Nor was this a prison. It was another lab, Lian another specimen.

As long as they had nights like these, Lian thought she could make it through each day, if only to see this last sight before closing her eyes.

* * *

 **AN: As you may be able to tell, this underwent a _rough_ edit. I apologize; reading it later, I feel like I could've done better. But here you go! (Look, I managed a regular update.)**


	7. Part I: Chapter Six

**Chapter Six**

* * *

Strings of red yarn limply traced the contours of her angular cheekbones where luscious waves of stylized auburn once framed plump curves. Empty sockets haphazardly and hastily filled by glass marbles bore unfocused into the reflective panes, begging the question: do you see more or less that way? Twin lines settled heavily over the hollow orbs, cinching together, transforming the dull bust into a negative photograph. A nondescript blunt triangle of semi-firm flesh sat down between and below the marbles; a smattering of dust was all that remained of the one-time impressive collection of captive constellations summoned forth by hours in the sunlight. A shallow channel led down to tightly pinched hinges, cracked and rusty, paint peeling away to leave them discolored and sensitive to the elements. Then dropping off the face of the earth, a subtle dip, providing a place for desperate sailors to scrabble at if they failed to grasp a handful of that yarn, choppy and uneven like the ocean in turmoil.

Lian tugged on the lackluster strands, and her moue nearly fogged up the bathroom mirror. Frail hands were raised to inspection; she cast them down to clutch the sink when they too failed to meet her criteria. What had happened to her? How could she have deteriorated in such a manner unchecked? She'd maintained a healthy weight prior to her coma; why was she skinny now where she hadn't been since high school? And the scars-

She disregarded the old ones, fingertips skipping over the pattern of slices to reach the fresh white marks adorning her already pale skin. Her furrowed brows pinched tighter together. Dismayed, she begrudgingly made the mental admittance that she seemed to have lost the tan she'd fought so desperately to attain in Malibu. Pepper would be disappointed. They'd faced the peril of being burned together, to Tony's amusement, but by the end of the summer they'd come out victorious. At least the old wounds weren't so visible with no pigment to contrast. These new ones, however . . . Were they _knife wounds_? Jagged seams sealed her stomach; clearly a massive injury healed by an untalented hand, the stitches must have been efficient but horrible. How could she . . . How could she not remember such pain? Where was this lost time where she acquired so many marks of what looked like war? Had someone taken to hacking at her comatose body? Why hadn't she awoken when that had been happening? More than ever, she didn't trust the doctors that had been tending to her.

This was too bizarre to fathom, so naturally her brain offered a substitute for her to focus on rather than the patchwork quilt her body had become.

"Don't be so surprised," scoffed her own voice. Except Lian hadn't spoken. She clapped her hand over her mouth, watching in horror as her reflection's lips kept moving of its own volition.

"H-how?" she stuttered.

Her reflection sneered, "Oh, please, like this is anything new. Don't collapse, darling; we wouldn't want to have to call those nasty doctors back here to hook us up to more machines."

"Us?" Lian managed, stumbling away from the mirror to press against the wall. "There is no us. This is a trick. A-a mind game, an illusion, my own head playing games. I'm dreaming."

The Lian depicted in the mirror smirked. "I'm afraid this is no dream, though I can assure you I am your worst nightmare." When the real Lian failed to muster a response, the negative image slammed a fist against the glass, spiderwebbing it on both sides. The distorted visage tipped back her head and cackled. When finished, she faced forward once more, locks of hair matted with blood obscuring an eye. The one eye Lian could see frightened her enough that its match was unnecessary; the cold fury, the blue flame, reflected in the swimming jade iris terrified her. She'd never seen such raw, pure rage before; her gut clenched at the apt description. It was pure. No insanity tainted that ferocity. If this was supposed to be a reflection of Lian . . .

"Don't you understand now?" implored the girl. Lian couldn't bring herself to think of the mirror's monster as a version of herself, no matter how hauntingly familiar the delusion appeared. The hallucination continued, "I am you. I am the you that they have locked away, hidden in a locked box to which they've thrown away the key. Only it's not so airtight as they believed, is it? You know it's true. You know I'm you. The worst of you, the strongest parts of you. The part that should be in control. Instead we've created a weakling like you to temporarily take the reins. You're the one who isn't real, Lian. You're a pathetic imitation of me when I was still innocent, despite the death I faced. I have witnessed bloodshed and emerged reborn from the fire of fortitude. I am that which you refuse to recall. I am who we had to be to _survive_. Accept that, or this time we will descend into madness, and you'll become more twisted than me."

Inexplicably empowered, Lian surged forward to meet the threat presented by the supposed shade of herself. "No," spat Lian, "you are the weak one, if you have succumbed to such _anger_. I would _never_ have done that. You are a _figment. You are not real."_

"What's not real?"

The illusion shattered, the glittering malicious fragments raining down around Lian until the dizziness threatening to overwhelm her forced her to close her eyes. When she opened them, she once more met with her reflection, docile this time. Dubiously she leaned closer to inspect it, her gut clenching when she grimly conceded that the cracking of the glass had also been envisioned. Although her parry to the shade's words had apparently been truly vocalized, the exchange appeared to be a mirage, and a cunning one at that. Was it possible the hallucination was the effect of a medication? Could someone here oriented in mind games be playing an elaborate scheme on her?

Lian wrapped her arms around herself. As soon as possible she needed to consult her father's old psychological texts and erect a mental wall between whatever transpired in her coma, whatever demons burrowed into her soul, and now, this hopefully extensive respite. She doubted it would be permanent, especially after this most recent episode simply surveying herself in the mirror.

Lian's gaze shifted to the expectant face hovering above her reflection's shoulder. She summoned a soft smile for Wanda, the assumed identity of her mysterious benefactor. She'd awoken early that morning shortly after dawn, her biological clock still unaccustomed to the time change, though that once again may have been more a consequence of her coma. A set of clean clothes awaited her, along with toiletries and a large fluffy towel. Lian had immediately taken advantage of these gifts, unsure if such priveleges were doomed to be revoked soon but intent on utilizing them while available. Wanda was about two inches taller than her, and she possessed curves Lian no longer did. It would make sense if the clothes were on loan from the other woman, seeing how they were a bit baggy and fell flat like a sheet where they were designed to cling. Lian tilted her head. Yes, they were most likely from Wanda.

"Thank you for the clothes," she said hoarsely. Her hand scratched at her throat; it must have been raw from her screaming match with her imagination.

Wanda shrugged. "It was the least I could do; you have no need to thank me. I see they suffice for now, until you regain lost mass or we find you new outfit." Lian's contemporary covered her mouth, cheeks staining delicately. "I apologize if my English is lacking; I've been practicing in my native tongue with Clint all morning, and sometimes that makes the translation difficult."

"I understand. Speaking Swedish with my mother's family always had that effect afterward," empathized Lian. She plucked at her sleeve, turning fully now to avoid glimpsing her perturbing reflection, lest the delusion creep back up on her. She would be sure to smash it for sure later or cover it with a blanket. Perhaps both would be necessary.

Wanda shifted footing. "Are you having a rough morning? I thought I heard you yelling that someone was not real when I came in," the twin tentatively broached.

Lian mastered the wavering in her voice, though the sudden rigidity of her spine was sure to give away the lie. "I had a nightmare. I dozed off while sitting on the toilet. The doctors warned me I might experience narcolepsy."

Arched eyebrows followed this deception, though her tentative new friend didn't remark upon Lian's lack of transparency this morning. Lian appreciated the show of faith; she preferred to interpret it as such, eager to cultivate some form of pleasant companionship in this facility barren of camaraderie. In a desert where scowls replaced the sand and humor fell as often as rain, receiving a smile was like finding a flask of self-replenishing water. Also like a desert, temperatures dropped drastically as night fell, a cold exterior sliding smoothly into place, and those treasured smiles vanished like the heat in the face of accomplishing the day's tasks and business.

"Your appetite should be intact, so we'll be eating breakfast in the cafeteria. It'll give you a chance to see more of the residential wing other than the lounge and our quarters. This is just a standard dorm here; I'm sure when they determine the longevity of your stay they'll assign you permanent quarters, as I have, and as do the rest of the members of the team. After that, you will be visiting an army of doctors, and as I understand it, being tortured by a celebrated partnership of a physicist and psychiatrist? Their renown in interrogation techniques is extensive and frighteningly impressive. I wish you luck in advance." Wanda offered a sympathetic smile just a tad too saccharine to be totally sincere; it was the facetious malevolence of a friend mock-delighting in another's troubles, and the familiarity warmed the chill in Lian's bones even as her shoulders slumped at the impending monsoon of medical professionals and specialists. In her more pronounced accent, the twin added, "If my presence is not required elsewhere, I will try to maybe catch dinner with you afterward?"

"Sounds good," agreed Lian, bracing herself for the coming trials and praying for strength, though she somehow doubted anyone was listening.

* * *

"So, when I do get to contact my family?" Lian prodded over breakfast. She leaned heavily on the table, masking her fatigue as emphasis on the question. Despite Wanda's reassurances to the contrary, while waiting on the other girl to finish dressing, Lian had been surprised when the medics who had attended to her so diligently didn't simply march up to the private living quarters floor and demand she return to her sickbed and dratted therapy sessions. (She remained suspicious of the staff's motives in scheduling various appointments rather than strapping her to a wheelchair and dragging her to them.) She'd awoken from her coma in deplorable condition; apparently, there was only so much they could do while she was stranded unconscious without risking her chances of surviving. Lian resisted a smile. It was strange, how she, along with the rest of the staff, viewed her coma as nothing more than an extended sleep. They never viewed it as what it was: her straddling the line of life and death. They all firmly rejected any possibility of eventually unplugging her. Lian appreciated it whenever the realization happened upon her that she could've died.

She'd assumed that they had informed her family of her current status weeks ago; her frenzied, ravaged state of mind prohibited any form of communication between them. However, now that she'd been freed from the roiling black wasteland of her nightmares, Lian hoped she might visit them soon, or at least instigate correspondence, even if that involved writing letters.

She frowned, nonplussed by the bafflement and panic coloring her companion's faces. Across the table, Maria Hill pursed her lips, winding her fingers together on the table in front of her, forming a protective barrier around her prized coffee with her bare arms. Next to the older woman, a younger man, presumably a contemporary of Lian, choked on the scrambled eggs he'd been enthusiastically shoveling into his mouth at light speed. He had introduced himself mid-chew in a foreign already garbled language, so Lian didn't trust she'd heard his sloppily announced title correctly. Beside her, Wanda froze, fork poised halfway to her mouth. The food speared on its tines slowly slid off the metal, returning to the plate. Wanda failed to notice or care if she did see.

The most interesting and insulting reaction was that of Hank Thierry, an intern who'd cockily stated his name and dropped into the remaining seat, prompting an eye roll from Hill and a grunt from the eater. At Lian's question, Hank erupted into raucous laughter, positively cackling with mad humorous glee. Soon the attention shifted; everyone seated in the cafeteria within hearing range of his guffaws turned to scowl at him for disrupting their meal. Hank ignored them, settling down only to obtain breath. He wiped tears from his eyes, cheeks still split by the widest grin, a true Cheshire Cat.

"Oh boy," coughed Hank. "That was a good one. A right ole knee slapper, there." He continued to dry his eyes with his light blue polo shirt while half the people in the room regarded him with disdain.

"What's so funny?" demanded Lian.

That response nearly set him off again until Hill clamped a hand over his mouth.

The unidentified man audibly swallowed. "It's just . . . Once you're here, you don't go back," he enlightened, spreading his hands apologetically.

Lian mulled over his words, attempting to comprehend what he was trying to tell her. She shook her head, still mystified. "But I'm not one of you," she persisted. "This isn't my job. When can I go home?"

Hill sent him a sharp look when he opened his mouth to reply. Her hand still in use as a muzzle for Hank, she pushed her tray aside with one hand to lean across the table. She stared intently into Lian's eyes, assuring their gazes were locked before she spoke. "No, this isn't your job. You aren't an Avenger, and you aren't an agent. However, we have taken you in and provided you with medical care when other hospitals would have pressured your family to pull the plug on your life support. Our doctors would like to spend more time studying your health. We would appreciate it if you would cooperate on your own without intervention. Once their research concludes, you have the option of going home. We'll see about the alternatives when that time comes. Until then, due to the sensitive nature of our location and the research, you will not be able to see your family. You may exchange email via an encrypted address through a secure network. Mr. Stark says you're big on pictures; you may receive them but you won't be able to send any. High security risk. Those are the conditions of your stay here, Liana. Violate them, and you'll be back on the happy meds."

Lian gazed wide-eyed at the woman, the epitome of strict power with her stern, straightforward mien teeming with conviction and the collected composure she so meticulously maintained. The immaculate bun only heightened that image. "Is that a threat?" Lian asked meekly.

Hank weaseled out from behind Hill's hand and barked a laugh. "Of course it is!" Hill slapped him upside the head, effectively silencing him.

"It's a deal," Lian said, her eyes dancing.

Hill narrowed her eyes. "A deal," she stated in a monotone.

Wanda prodded Lian in the side, her lips twitching as she resisted a smile. "I suggest you take the deal, Maria," she advised, a teasing lilt to her voice that she could not conceal.

"What am I missing?"

Lian and Wanda exchanged sly grins. "All I'm saying," Lian said, pitching her voice lower, "is that with a redhead, you can't win, Hill. If you dope me up, I shall become more troublesome and powerful than you could possibly imagine. So let's make an agreement: I behave, you don't drug me."

Hill still appeared perplexed, while the unnamed man grinned widely and Hank glowered. Wanda rolled her eyes, but her mouth curved into an unmistakable shape: a smile that said as much as Lian may exasperate her with cheesiness, she had developed a fondness for her contemporary, the only other girl she'd met here who was also her age.

"Nice little Kenobi quote variation." He smirked, mirthful hazel eyes flashing. He pitched his voice lower. "Don't worry, I won't let Maria know you compared her to Darth Vader. I'm Blake Westerly. I think we're going to be great friends. I'm glad to have another Star Wars fan among us. Maybe now someone will finally understand my definitely-not-corny jokes. The souls of these losers have died with disgraceful modern literature and film."

"Easy there, Westerly," cautioned Hank, scowling. "My uncle is one of those big Hollywood producers you're calling trash."

Blake sniggered, "I never said anything about trash, buddy. Who's really insulting your uncle here?"

Hank made to swing at the confident nerd and Lian prepared to launch herself across the table to either interrupt or join the ensuing fight. Most likely, given her current state of exhaustion, she would collapse halfway onto Blake's dirty dishes and hopefully partially land on one of the boys, providing a shield to disrupt the flow of successful punches. Then red mist floated toward Hank, capturing him frozen with his fist drawn back to his ear in an epic smack down pose. Wanda clenched her fist, from which the mist seemed to originate. Lian watched in awe as Hank abruptly changed recipients of the punch and in slow-motion socked himself in the face. He toppled off his seat, groaning and whimpering. Lian thought she saw blood gushing from his nose. Blake crowed triumphantly, leaping to his feet and prancing around the table to supply high-fives to Wanda and Lian. Hill observed the spectacle, shaking her head. The only sign of her inner amusement was the discrete thumbs-up she threw to Wanda before striding away from the table, cleaning her hands of them.

"Let's go," Blake urged, "before he gets up." Grabbing their arms, he hauled them out of the cafeteria, a spring to his step and jubilant grin adorning his elfish face.

* * *

Pietro arrived back at his hospital room no worse for wear, despite the fact he had been running all night and all morning. He had successfully decimated his boots; he was unsure whether that pleased him or not. Now that he would need new shoes, he could request (throw a fit for) more athletically-inclined footwear (he better get those Nike Air Zoom Pegasus' he ordered, or Wanda's friendships be damned, he'd tear this place apart). Still, even though he enjoyed going barefoot, a lack of protective layer over his skin didn't suit this terrain. He'd be sure to gouge a hole in the sole of his foot with a tree branch, a small affliction that would waste time, his accelerated healing aside. He grinned at the thought of yet another blessing bestowed upon him by the experiments. Quickly he sobered. His rapid self-restoration process didn't stop him from dying.

 _Happy thoughts,_ he reminded himself. Then he cursed because that sounded like something Lila would say, and he had sworn to not let the child's mannerisms influence him.

He tugged the hem of a fresh shirt over his head as one of the nurses bustled into the room. He yanked it down, freeing his face, in time to witness the normally steely-eyed nurse shriek, practically throw her clipboard at his head, and fly out of the room. He dissolved into laughter as she collided with several of her colleagues outside in her hasty flight. The realization that it was the hand clamped firmly over her eyes that caused her to run into the other medics birthed a smirk on his lips. He glanced down at his abs; while they were known to make women swoon and salivate, prompting them to flee was a first.

Shrugging, he finished dressing. The standard outfit of one confined to observation was composed of black sweats, thick socks, and alternating black and white loose-fitting v-necks—it seemed there was actually a formal schedule for wearing black-and-white around here. Wanda suspected the colors denoted rank to senior agents/officers/employees. Pietro's theory was that their laundry service sucked, and everyone wore what was clean.

Five minutes later, he was still trying to squeeze all the water out of his hair. The shower had been a necessity; running through the woods may have succeeded in calming him down, but afterward he found himself caked in mud and brush, stiff and itching. It was the aftermath he hated: you'd think he had _girl_ hair or something, the way it took forever to dry. He wondered how long it would be before Wanda noticed. It would be ample ammunition in her already embarrassingly extensive arsenal of teasing material.

Rapping on the door frame drew his attention. A new nurse leaned against the doorframe, her pale blue scrubs streaked with red. His eyes darted over her curvy figure; surprise registered in her expression, drawing his focus back to her face. He raised his eyebrows in response.

"Usually people are at the very least disconcerted by the blood," she explained. "But not you—were you a soldier? Field agent?"

"Something like that," Pietro muttered.

The woman frowned, carving lines in her otherwise youthful face, but didn't question the vague reply. Instead she retrieved his patient file from the slot outside his door. He watched her flick through the sheets, dreading when she would inevitably see the page towards the end, his former S.H.I.E.L.D. target profile. Stamped in unforgiving red print across his picture was the word 'DECEASED.'

"Whoa," she murmured, head bent over the file, "you faked your death and managed to fool S.H.I.E.L.D.? That's impressive. What's your clearance level?"

"Level 7." Pietro remembered Clint mentioning that his clearance was level seven prior to the downfall of the agency, or whatever happened. They seemed to be functioning now.

She whistled. "Interesting file. I don't understand why they included differentiating vital recordings, especially since each is dated a week after the last. Are these notes in code? No wonder Chief wanted to read me in before I took a look. I hardly understand anything—hold on, why does it mention 'Loki's scepter' with a bunch of doodles? He was the maniac that tried to take over and started that invasion in NYC!"

Pietro shot to his feet. He snatched the folder from her hand and hid it behind his back. "Maybe you should wait for your chief," he warned coolly.

The woman scowled at him, eyes narrowed. Too late he realized it wasn't just a glare; she was analyzing his face. "You're that kid from Sokovia, aren't you? Scarlet Witch's brother?" she accused.

 _Scarlet Witch?_ He begrudgingly admitted the moniker suited his sister, though he suspected Stark held responsibility for the magical part of her public title. He'd heard him refer to her as witch far too many times in the past few months. It even seemed to be her primary nickname amongst her team members.

Did they want him to keep his identity a secret? After all, he was legally dead. He couldn't recall all the rules Selvig tried to drill into him regarding his residency at the facility. He'd been allowed little freedom prior to their rescue of that girl, but they'd let him explore the woods last night without sending a firing squad after him. What restrictions existed? What rules were there left for him to break?

He decided he didn't care. He was _alive._ Didn't that entitle him a right to _live_? "Pietro," he introduced, "though you probably garnered that from the file, and I'm her twin."

"You don't look alike," the woman stated bluntly, disbelief edging her voice. "What's up with the funky hair?"

"I honestly have no idea," he admitted, dragging a hand through the damp strands. _Funky?_ "Started one day. I asked why it turned: scientists said 'funny reaction, we keep it that way.'"

"Scientists?" questioned the woman.

Pietro deftly changed the subject. "You haven't said your name," he pointed out.

She smiled. "Tansy Usaah, RN."

"Tansy," he repeated.

A smirk danced on her lips. "Usually it's my last name that mystifies people." She tucked a glossy lock of honey blonde hair behind her ear. Pietro followed the movement.

"Haven't you realized yet I'm not the usual person?" He sidled closer to her. With the new proximity, he could discern the color of her eyes, a rich, earthy brown.

Tansy stepped forward. If she leaned any closer, her nose would bump against his. She batted hooded eyes, oozing seduction. Their breath mixing between them, Pietro struggled to restrain himself. Tansy tilted her head, her mouth brushing his ear. "I'm sorry, sweetheart. The flirting was fun, but I prefer brunettes my own age, though I won't deny you are a fine specimen."

Abruptly, she withdrew, suddenly clear across the room and crossing the threshold before he could react. His eyes widened as she waved the folder containing his records, a cheeky smile replacing the faux flush that previously occupied her features. He lunged for the door as she slammed her open palm on the activation panel enabling it to slide open and closed. The hydraulics hummed as a barrier of steel moved into place, just catching the billowing cloth of his oversized shirt as he zipped through. Instead of wrenching him back, it tore a giant hole in the garment. The scrap of fabric fluttered to the tile floor, reminding Pietro of a sandy, solitary island floating alone in the middle of a vast sea. The comparison struck a chord he didn't know existed within himself; he nearly missed his opportunity to utilize Tansy's shock that he had made it through in the surge of loneliness.

He grabbed the file and flung it around the corner, vaguely hoping it would land near the computer console centered in the lobby but not really caring much more. A hand clenching her throat, he shoved Tansy against a wall. A growl vibrated in his chest, a small indication of the rage he felt towards the deception.

Tansy gasped. Blunt nails scraped against the tanned, calloused skin of his hand as she scrabbled fruitlessly to loosen his grip. Fear stared intently back at him when he locked his murderous gaze on her. Pietro faltered.

Wanda clutched his hand as the mousy old woman directed them toward the staircase. They both ignored the orphanage matron as she wheezed instructions. Hesitating at the base of the carpeted stairs, Pietro squeezed his sister's hand and made to take the first step. The answering pressure halted him. For the first time since they were finally pulled from the rubble, Wanda lifted her face and met his eyes. Drowning in the fear glimmering there, Pietro trembled, his legs quaking. He had resolved to take care of his twin sister; it didn't matter that they were the same age, and he hardly comprehended how to multiply two-digit numbers, much less care for to the two of them. Yet seeing the mixture of fear and determination in his sister spurred him to gather his strength. And then he was swimming, not drowning. As if sensing the change in him, Wanda straightened, and he smiled as she tentatively started dog-paddling, like Papa taught them when they first began learning. Slowly, the fear drained from those beautiful eyes; she wasn't happy—neither would be for a long time—and she wasn't alright, but his sister was brave. Their clasped hands were their shared strength. Together they marched up the creaking steps toward their dismal future.

Pietro eased his tight grip. Tansy sucked in gulps of precious air. "Who are you really? Why do you want my file?" he interrogated.

"Not me." Tansy shook her head furiously. "My employer. They wanted all of the enhanceds' files. They wanted to recreate the experiments. They offered money if I did one little thing. But you're going to kill me anyways, so it doesn't matter."

"Kill you?" Pietro snorted. "This isn't a movie. I can't believe you talked so easily."

Confusion contorted her features. "You won't? H-he said I'd be killed immediately if they caught me. That the people here are murderers. Beasts. That you had a temper and would snap my neck," she sputtered.

Pietro rolled his eyes. "Who is your employer?" _This is way too easy. It feels staged._

"I don't know his name!" cried Tansy. "I was drunk; I met him at a casino and I needed the money to pay off my debt. He hired me to infiltrate this place, using this woman's identity, and steal a couple of files. Nothing more, nothing less. I woke up the next morning w-w-with this str-strapped to me." Trembling, Tansy looped her arm around his to lift up her top. Pietro watched as a sliver of stomach appeared, then she was showcasing her abdomen, and the bomb duct-taped there. Blinking red numerals indicated the detonation countdown.

Twenty-five minutes, twenty-seven seconds.

Trembling, Tansy reached down, shaking fingers scrabbling at the tape haphazardly wound around her. As she brushed the death count, it suddenly flashed. Shrieking, she yanked her hand back to reveal the revised time and the muffled persistent beeping.

Five minutes, fifty-three seconds.

Pietro released her, instead grabbing her arm. He zipped them into the lobby, pointing urgently at the device and shouting, _"THERE'S A BOMB!"_

The middle-aged woman sitting at the computer terminal screamed. Medical professionals streamed into the lobby, some appearing fresh out of surgery in masks and blood-stained scrubs. The woman thrust a finger at Pietro and "Tansy" and then promptly fainted. He bounced on the balls of his feet, glaring fiercely at the team gathered about him, frozen in fear. One of them rushed forward to support the computer lady's limp body; her boxy frame proved too much for him, and he collapsed beneath her bulk with a helpless squeal, disappearing behind the counter.

"DO SOMETHING!"

A few cautiously stepped forward. Another rushed to the emergency phone mounted to the wall. At his side, Tansy wept; her once delicate features contorted into a swollen red blob. She sniffled, blodshot eyes squeezing shut. Pietro searched for the talented actress who deceived everyone in the building within the puffy mess; he was disappointed to find only a melodramatic woman underneath the layer of snot and tears.

He sighed. Wanda wouldn't like him participating in dangerous affairs without backup; nevermind he was endangering his life by engaging in such egotistical stunts. He directly quoted her there, he noted with a rueful smile.

"Fine," he snapped, swiftly scooping Tansy up in his arms, careful to avoiding touching the bomb. He started toward the hallway in order to locate the stairwell, but then an idea occurred to him. He snatched a sleek black cellphone from the pocket of the one frantically jabbing buttons on the wall phone. Utilizing a trick he learned from some children-of-cons back in the orphanage, he bypassed the phone's security codes and then used the device to access the building's AI system (Wanda taught him how; he was wary of the AI's presence, it reminding him far too much of Ultron to be comfortable). Thankfully, the AI didn't override and deny him clearance by activating the locks on all the doors he breezed through. Stark must have programmed it to respond to his commands, just as it did with the ranking employees/agents, but not newcomers/visitors.

"WHERE'S THE NEAREST UNPOPULATED AREA CAPABLE OF CONTAINING A BLAST?"

"Considering the amount of available time and accounting for your average top speed, I would recommend running the bomb out into the Atlantic. That is, if you are capable of maintaining a speed that would enable you to pass over the water quicker than the surface tension would able to break; the calculations-" droned the cool, distinctly female voice.

Pietro interjected, "How far would I have to go before dropping it? Could I get away fast enough before it exploded?"

The AI rattled off a rough estimate. "I would advise removing the explosive from the carrier; the extra weight would slow you down by a tenth of a second."

"That's safe?" gawked Pietro. _First time I've ever cared about what's safe,_ he snorted. _But Wanda and Clint are here. If I can't handle this, they could be hurt._ Since he was ten years old, protecting his family was his primary priority and ultimately his responsibility. He wasn't about the slack off now; he'd lost enough precious time being _dead_.

He ripped the bomb off Tansy's stomach and paused to deposit her in a random hallway. Freed of her hiccuping sobs in his ear, he felt lighter. He focused on weaving through the copse of trees providing a sheltering ring around the hidden facility. He skidded around armored cars trudging up the concealed gravel path that began once you breached the perimeter's extra security measures. He leaped over a chainlink fence, narrowly avoiding the electric shock, and touched down. His feet flew across the earth; they hardly rested long enough to differentiate the changing textures beneath his soles.

An undetermined amount of time later, he adjusted his speed to compensate for the approaching body of water. _The Atlantic,_ he realized, his mental sigh colored by relief. The natural wind of the sea was overtaken by that which he created, whipping his white hair back from his face. The air carried the salty tang customary to the brackish waters. He glanced down, hoping the 'don't look down' when atop great heights saying didn't apply to watching the waves while running on water. A smirk settled on his lips; he was a glorified pioneer in the phenomenon. Azure waves rolled languidly beneath his steps, which never faltered. Whitecaps roiled and licked at his calves. The spray tickled his arms, and he greedily inhaled the crisp sea breeze. He bent and trailed his cupped hand through the water, sending up a teal spout and consequentially splashing himself in the face. Tipping back his face, he giddily laughed, exhilarated by the unique experience. Pietro grinned-he'd found his new favorite thing.

Pain pricked sharply in his palm. He opened it, revealing the neat cut sliced into his skin by the cracked glass of the phone screen. He tossed the phone over his shoulder, cradling the bomb tightly in the crook of his arm. The timer read two minutes. Pietro lifted his head, surmising he was far enough away from the coast or any ships approaching port to drop the explosive. He raised the device to his mouth and ripped through a wire with his teeth. As if burned, he flung it away and abruptly changed course, heading back toward land. He spit out the fragment of wire, wrinkling his nose at the aftertaste of the its rubber coating. He reached land in time to gaze out at the diminishing pinprick of horizon and the small burst of water coiling into the air as the final seconds of the triggered-early detonation played out. By the time he arrived panting back at the facility's heavily guarded entrance, the threat the bomb had posed was a fanciful distant memory, and Pietro had one minor success under his belt.

* * *

 **I'm sorry for the delay. I planned on updating yesterday, but the site was glitching or something and wouldn't let me login. Thanks, of course, to all of you lovelies who indulge me by reading this and favoriting and following. Notifications for that make my day. :) Also, let me know what you think of my portrayal of Pietro so far.**


	8. Part I: Chapter Seven

**Chapter Seven**

* * *

" _Wait_ , so you're saying you just picked up the bomb and ran off with it?" Wanda raged.

Pietro shrugged, an awkward smile forming on his lips in an attempt at placating her. "Funny, no?"

"No, not funny!" Wanda punched him square in the jaw. His head snapped to the side. Groaning, he probed the tender area. He winced; it would probably leave a nice eggplant bruise. Both of them ignored the fact he _let_ her punch him. "It's like you _want_ to get yourself killed!" Suddenly Wanda's eyes flared crimson, a second-length flash that made it appear as though she'd been possessed, and she whipped around indignantly to face their audience. "It is not the same argument every time if each time I have to _scold him like a child_ for doing another stupid thing! How many idiotic stunts can someone pull before they run out of ideas? _You go looking for trouble!"_ She directed the last part at her brother. The heel of her boot ground into the floor as she spun back and forth.

Clint and Natasha stood shoulder-to-shoulder, observing the fight from a presumably safe distance. Natasha whispered something into Clint's ear that provoked a smirk. Pietro glowered at both of them; their visible amusement was not helping his situation. At least Clint could have defended him; the men needed to side together if they had any chance of surviving two she-devils like Natasha and Wanda.

His sister stalked around him, circling him like a vulture. Pietro buzzed with nervous energy, his instincts urging him to run. "Wanda," he insisted, "there was no one around to disarm it. Besides, I had plenty of time."

She screwed her eyes shut. When she opened them, Pietro was relieved to see they were much softer. "I wish you wouldn't be so reckless," she said.

Pietro hesitated. As far as he knew, she was still angry with him, over both their disastrous mental exchange the day before and his disposal of the bomb. Yet they had never allowed their anger to harm each other. Tentatively, he reached out, letting his hand hang palm-up between them.

Wanda stared at his hand. He resisted his usual fidgeting, forcing himself to remain still, patient (even though that was the last word anyone would use to describe him). There was a brief second when he felt her withdraw, and fear struck him. Not necessarily of rejection, but of isolation. Then she edged closer, her fingertips brushing his palm. Finally she wrapped her hand around his, lifting her gaze to meet his eyes. Simultaneously, the mental link ignited between them, renewed and refreshed. Wanda's emotions floated across the bridge. He absorbed them like a sponge and sent his own remorse across. He felt her reassurance to never leave him, no matter what outrageous insane act he committed. The bond they shared had always been steadfast, a permanent fixture in every regard.

As twins, they always seemed to have an extra sense when it concerned the other. Upon Wanda mastering her powers, she had instated a real telepathic link between them; so natural, already so close, they hardly noticed it unless it was damaged or, in this most recent case, closed. Pietro hated whenever Wanda shut him out; often it was as if they shared one mind, one soul, and to have half of his soul suddenly missing inflicted such pain, insubstantial or not, that he couldn't bear it.

Pietro squeezed. The heady rush of relief was palpable when Wanda reciprocated the gesture. _"We are okay?"_ he whispered in Sokovian, the layered question too intimate for prying ears. They hadn't used their native tongue since they were still children.

Wanda's grip tightened. She sensed the numerous unspoken meanings resonating in the short three words, all the things he should've said and was too afraid to speak. The phrase contained so many possible interpretations, yet each carried one common theme: each rendered him utterly vulnerable. Only to his sister did he expose wholesome, helpless openness; Wanda recognized and treasured the gift. He knew she knew the power she wielded over him, her ability to break him beyond repair with a single word, and he loved her dearly even more for her responding emphasized gentleness.

 _"How could we ever not be?"_ replied his sister with a tender smile. The melting of the ice temporarily surrounding her heart that had begun when he extended his hand had finally reached completion, and her eyes were as warm now as ever. _"You are my brother, idiotic or not."_

Pietro yanked her into his embrace, tucking her head under his chin. He closed his eyes. He had missed this: the two of them. Ever since she revived him, he had been starved for the familiar affection, the physical tether as well as the mental that guaranteed they never strayed from the other's side. He longed for the unity. He wasn't alone as long as he had his twin, and to a certain degree, the Bartons.

He hated being alone. The little he remembered of being dead seemed to be the yearning for life, the suspension in time in which he stubbornly waited, refusing to move on into the great unknown. All that time, he had waited alone.

His nightmares featured hellish cages of iron and fire in which he hung in the abyss, screaming for help, and no one answered. The worst depicted a battle scene similar to the flying Novi Grad. He ran, dodging debris, his mind focused on some danger ahead. Yet no matter how fast or hard he ran, he never arrived in time to be the savior.

"Pietro–Pietro, I can't breathe. Too tight." Wanda's fists beat half-heartedly against his chest. He opened his eyes, grinning sheepishly as he released her. "That's better," she laughed.

"I just―" He inhaled raggedly. He needed to get it out. Wanda could read his darkest thoughts, but facing this fear, this uncontrollable impulse, would mean more in way of an apology. "I just need to help. To be able to save people without screwing up."

"Without getting killed," Wanda deadpanned. Over her shoulder, he saw Clint wince and Natasha pat his back comfortingly.

"Without getting killed," he confirmed. "You have your Avengers; I need this."

"You know, kid," Clint interjected loudly, slithering up to Wanda's elbow, "we are accepting applications, if you feel like signing up." The archer's eyes danced with mischief.

Natasha joined in, tapping her chin thoughtfully. "I don't know. The runt may not be able to take it," she said.

Pietro dramatically bounced on his heels and shook out his arms theatrically, hefting balled fists. "I'm up for a challenge."

* * *

While he may have been eager to face the challenge of vigorous training under Black Widow and Captain America, Pietro was definitely not ready to slay the demons of his sleep.

He jolted awake thrashing. Sweat-soaked skin slid against tangled sheets. He shoved his fist in his mouth to muffle his screams and glanced at the bed across the room. He sighed in relief; Wanda had decided to spend the night with the girl again, so he didn't need to worry about biting down on his fingers until they bled in order to contain his desperate cries. Gradually his fear-accelerated heart rate slowed. He hunched over his knees, kicking the restricting slippery silk sheets off his legs. Closing his eyes proved to be a mistake.

The spray of bullets pierced him but did not deter him from his mission. No, it was not the bullets puncturing vital organs that stopped him; an altogether different form of excruciating pain struck. His feet failing, he collapsed on top of Barton and the boy, suddenly numb. His legs tingled; how he managed to identify the source of strangeness through the agony of the forty-seven bullets lodged in his body, he didn't comprehend. He tried to move, did his best to thrash, and when that miserably reached no success, he attempted to at least wiggle his toes. How―How― _No_. Paralysis gripped him tight and offered no mercy. More shots came, peppering the three of them in bloody wounds leaking their hope. Pietro struggled with his immobility. This wasn't supposed to happen. He was supposed to save them and then die. That was the way it happened. Approaching footsteps vibrated through his skull. Sluggishly he managed to move his head an inch, his eyes tracking up the booted feet until they reached the specter that haunted Pietro's dreams almost as frequently as Ultron, or as his parents had when he was a child, before greater fears and traumas replaced them.

Strucker reverently held a machine gun, a cruel sneer twisting his mouth. "Can't run anymore, eh boy?" he taunted, unmistakable malice gleaming in his eyes. Pietro looked beyond the gun as it morphed into a pistol; in awed horror he stared into the blood red mechanical eyes of Ultron that screamed _evilevilevilevilevil_ as the android pressed the barrel to his forehead. Gathered behind the robot were all the dust-streaked citizens of his home country he was unable to save from Ultron's minions, all of them chanting in the coarse native language, _"Your fault, your fault, your fault, how could you not see, your fault, your fault, your fault."_

Pietro's eyes flashed open. He rubbed his temples, bracing himself for the oncoming headache, consequence of little sleep and absolutely no rest.

There was no way he was risking diving back into another nightmare; he preferred keeping the torture to a minimum. Sliding out of bed, he grabbed the neatly folded article of clothing at the top of the stack provided along with the new quarters he would share with Wanda, freed now as he was from the hospital. That was one benefit of the crazy girl Wanda had grown so fond of: all the attention had been diverted off of his miraculous resurrection to her condition of insanity. Shaking it loose, he found the hem of the hoodie and fumbled with tugging it over his head. Once he wrangled his arms through the appropriate holes, he stumbled blindly through the dark, banging the walls until he slapped the activation panel and the door slid open. He emerged into the light, shutting the door behind him.

Usually he refrained from running disoriented, especially after particularly horrific nightmares, like this one. However, remembering the loss of his speed, the way it all just stopped and cost them their lives, the itch to reassure himself _he still had it_ triumphed, and he skidded around corners, racing soundlessly down the halls. The entire floor was devoted to living quarters; the opposite wing mirrored a college dormitory. Pietro wasn't sure what they needed a set of dorms for, unless the ranks grew so great the compartmentalized living space was required. Apparently, Stark designed the Avengers Tower in New York City with an entire distinct floor for each individual Avenger that catered specifically to their taste and needs. Pietro considered his place in the Mansion extravagant enough; he couldn't fathom what the now ill-used Tower must be like.

He smelt them before he saw them.

He slid to a halt in socked feet in the lounge, leaving a friction burn on the carpet. Inhaling deeply, he affirmed that the irrefutably delicious chocolate-scented aroma that wafted up his nose during his run indeed originated from the assumed source. His eyes fixed on the plate of chocolate-chip cookies. They were anything but innocent; temptation thrummed in Pietro's bones, and seduction emanated from the gloriously malevolent contents of the ceramic platter. The molten brown chips beckoned to him, daring him to swallow one whole, to consume the fresh batch.

Most classic mundane activities Wanda performed passably; she was tolerant of other hobbies but not passionate. Pietro's perhaps favorite day of his life was the one where their foster mother taught Wanda to bake desserts, and his sister removed the tray of perfection from the oven to reveal where her true talent lie. Pietro worshipped his sister for occasionally indulging in baking. She claimed she dabbled, but Pietro knew that was an understatement. Taking a bite was like tasting heaven.

Pietro sorely needed heaven right now.

He shoved five in his mouth and nearly melted right there. He moaned, licking chocolate from his fingers. He stared at the plate. A few more couldn't hurt...

"She predicted that, you know," a voice interrupted. Feiging guilt, he removed his hand and casually maneuvered it behind his back, concealing the cookie he'd stolen as the first syllable passed the witness's lips.

Liana―at least he _thought_ that was her name because Hill called her it, but Wanda continuously referred to her as Lian―perched on the counter behind him. Olive green eyes sparkled, but the bruised shadows causing them to droop belied her true exhaustion. Pietro wryly thought they must look like quite the pair, sporting dark bags and haunted gazes, pretending to be alert and okay. Then he recalled this girl planned to take his life and shoved the comparison away. They were _not_ a pair, and he couldn't comprehend Wanda's friendship with her. She was weird.

"Wanda said you'd sniff them out in your sleep and devour them all in ten seconds," Liana continued. "She talks about you a lot; it must be awesome to have a twin, to be so close to them. I wish I had that."

Pietro crossed the kitchen to the fridge, placing the door between him and the girl. He used the opportunity to eat the last cookie he'd probably be able to get with his sister's accomplice watching him like a hawk. He guzzled half a water bottle then faced her. "Are you trying to kill my sister too?"

Liana recoiled. "No! Of course not! Wanda's so great, even though she tried to kill me, which I suppose makes all of us equal since I kept yelling about how I was going to kill you whenever I was crazy. Wanda's been digging around in my head trying to uncover the origins of that phenomenon. She offered to track down the evil thing that was trapped in my coma with me―you know, the dark thing that showed me terrible stuff and promised my death and the deaths of my family and the destruction of the world and how I would responsible for it and I'd be his puppet. She can't find any traces or paths leading back to them, or it, though, which sucks, because I'd really like to hunt that bastard down and kick his ass for messing me up so bad. That _thing_ stole months of my life but I bet it was longer and they just aren't telling me, although my perception of time is drastically off. I can't sleep without having nightmares. Wanda finally gave up on trying to fix my brain and erase them. She's sleeping, but I'm afraid the monsters will be there when I close my eyes, so I drank most of the caffeine that's stocked in this place. I'm usually not such a chatterbox. No, I take that back, I totally am, but my coworkers just walk off once they get tired of listening and my friends have usually told me to shut up by now. I know we're not friends, and it's generally considered rude, but feel free to cut me off at any time and tell me to shut my mouth-box. Apparently I have a 'tendency to disregard manners' anyhow. Jackie, my older sister, says it's annoying. Bless her heart, Giselle says it's useful sometimes because it means there will never be an awkward silence. Mom told me I needed to grow a filter before my mouth gets me in trouble. Do you think this qualifies as trouble?"

Pietro stared at her.

She frowned. "Oh, were you not able to follow that? I'm sorry, sometimes I get talking fast and then you can't understand what I'm saying." She sighed, picking at the hem of her shirt.

He blinked. "You have sisters?"

Liana's head snapped up. She beamed. "Yeah, I have two. I'm the middle child. Most people complain about being born in the middle. My parents were pretty good about giving us each equal amounts of attention. I never felt neglected or that they cared more about my sisters. I had a great childhood. It wasn't until I reached high school that life pulled the rug out from under my feet. Wait, you asked about my sisters? Jackie is the oldest. Her full name is Jacqueline, but a few other kids in her elementary class called her Jack-o-Lantern every Halloween, so she permanently shortened it. Honestly, I don't see what changed. She's an anesthesiologist―the people who knock you out before surgeries.

"There's a nine year age difference between Giselle and me. Baby G is only fifteen―sixteen in a few months, but then again, I have no idea about the date. She's intelligent and beautiful; all the boys trail after her like lovesick puppies. The last time I talked to her, a few weeks before the accident, she said she was interested in astronomy. The physic-astronomy type, like wormholes and calculating light years, being a pioneer in space exploration and discovery. I'm so proud of her. I mean, I'm proud of Jackie too, but I feel like I helped raise G, so beyond the sisterly relationship there's almost a motherly instinct too. Jackie doesn't share that sentiment though. She graduated early and took off to University to get her degree. She left so fast you'd think she had developed super speed. Every few years, she comes home for holidays. Doesn't give a flying fish about the rest of us. No, I shouldn't say that. She has a lot of stuff on her mind, that's all. At least, that's what I tell myself. It doesn't help much. I wonder why." Lian tilted her head. "Wanda mentioned you have an actual mind bond, not just twin senses. It really hurt her while it was 'shut off.' She seems happier. Did you fix it?"

"Why do you think _I_ fixed it?" Pietro retorted, mind whirling from the influx of information.

Lian cast him a disbelieving look, shook her head, and rolled her eyes. With an amused smile she elucidated, "You seem like the kind of guy who can't stand _not_ fixing things. _Wanda brought you back from the dead._ If that doesn't say something about the love you share, I don't know what does."

Pietro found himself leaning dangerously close to her. Startled, he forcibly relaxed back against the island behind him, the corner digging into his back. "You don't know anything about us." It wasn't so much a taunt or sneer as a statement of fact, curiously spoken at best.

She jumped off the counter, lacing her hands together. "That's how all friendships start. You know nothing about each other and slowly, little by little, you learn more until you can tell what the other person is thinking _without_ having mind-powers. Just know, Pietro, I'm not . . . encroaching on your territory or whatever. Even if Wanda and I do end up being good friends, that won't ever compare to how close the two of you are. In case you felt threatened. Though I'm the least intimidating person in the building at a maximum height of 5'3". I'm going to hijack the iPod Tony conveniently left lying around. Good luck." She skipped off, socks sliding on the tile floor. He watched her walk away, studying her like a predator would his prey. She tread lightly, but the tension in her back that she attempted to conceal with baggy sleep-clothes belied the seemingly easy gait and fluttering movements. It was wariness that made her walk lightly. A feeling of being imprisoned, monitored, hunted. Pietro knew that feeling well enough to recognize it upon sight.

 _What is she hiding?_

"Good luck with what?" Pietro called at her back, suddenly recalling her vague parting words.

She glanced over her shoulder, one ear bud already inserted. "With your nightmares, of course. What else?"

* * *

 **AN: I will do my best to aim for an update every other week, but don't hold me to that. At the very least, I shall try to squeeze out a chapter per month. I haven't had the opportunity to write much lately, and I like to keep a buffer inbetween as a safety cushion. Let me know what you think, and as always, I greatly appreciate any time taken to indulge my writer's whims and read this shoddy fic.**


	9. Part I: Chapter Eight

**Chapter Eight**

* * *

"You wouldn't be so tired if you actually slept at night instead of roaming the halls," Wanda scolded.

Lian scowled. With her mouth full of some sort of pastry she'd snagged from the kitchen, she couldn't retort with the scathing response waiting on the tip of her tongue. She brushed the crumbs off on her sweats and gathered her damp hair into a horribly messy bun. Despite her vivacious efforts to ensnare them, wispy tendrils floated to settle around her face. Irritably, she blew them out of her eyes, glaring at the obvious amusement her friend displayed at Lian's current condition.

Swallowing, she snapped, "I have insomnia. I haven't gotten a good night's sleep since I met you, after you strangled me. That was four days ago. I've been patient and cooperative with all of the doctors, with you leaving me alone for the majority of the day and routinely skipping dinner and therefore obliterating any chance I have at seeing you besides breakfast―except for when you waltz into my room at ungodly hours complaining about your brother's snoring―and with Blake playing baby-sitter. However, if I have to get up at bloody six in the morning one more time, I swear I'll regress and go psychotic on all of your asses."

Wanda guffawed; Lian huffed and folded her arms, plucking at the familiar, well-worn fabric of her old high school sweatshirt. Her fingers traced the faded emblem of St. Mark's; gnawing on her lip, she stared at the ceiling panels, hoping she could dismiss her tears before Wanda noticed.

 _Damn you Tony,_ thought Lian, resisting the impulse to inhale the scent of lavender washing detergent clinging to the fabric. It had been washed so many times over the years it had lost the musk it acquired after constant wear in the company of her highschool friends. Not that she missed the stench; some of those guys were _rank_ , and the ash scent left by her smoker friends wasn't something she missed either. It was the sole artifact from her four years at St. Mark's that escaped the bonfire to which she'd fed the rest of her memorabilia from that time. (Her college keepsakes were still packed away in boxes stacked in the hall closet of her modest apartment, despite living in L.A. for three years.) There had also been a period where it smelled heavily of cherry pie, Lian recalled fondly. She'd accidentally left it stashed in the kitchen cupboard of her parents' American home where she'd hidden it from souvenir-crazed Tiff Hillsboro before she left for college. When her mother discovered it, she hadn't said anything, allowing Lian to panic that Tiff had ultimately made off with her prize and she'd never recover the treasured article, a security blanket throughout the troubled times of her high school career. Lian came home for summer to find her mother had used it as a baking apron, and the aroma of the delicacies and treats she had concocted had been imprinted in it. Just a simple hoodie held so many memories; Lian physically ached with longing to be back home, surrounded by her family. At work, Tony had caught her violating dress code by wearing it numerous times. Even if it sorely reminded her of her family, she sought comfort in it, just as Tony knew she would.

Although, it was it baggy on her now. It fit her snugly before the accident―perhaps even a bit _too_ snugly; now it hung from her shoulders and nearly swallowed her short frame. Lian tugged the hood over her head; the shadow it cast engulfed her face, hiding her gaunt features.

"Why do you do that?" Wanda asked as the floor numbers ticked toward their destination.

As part of their agreement and Lian's terms to behaving politely, Wanda escorted her to most of her morning sessions and appointments. Their schedules coincided. The world happened to be lacking any major villains or domination plots, so besides mandatory training and errands of her own, Wanda was free to hustle her around. The higher-ups didn't trust Lian, and Lian didn't trust herself not to get lost. Thus, the necessity of a guide bloomed into Wanda becoming her official escort.

"Do what?" Lian mumbled, yawning.

"Hide your face," Wanda clarified.

"Oh. That."

"Well?" Wanda persisted.

"Well what?" Lian replied blandly.

Wanda's eyes narrowed. Her hands descended on Lian's shoulders, nails digging through layers of cloth. Lian appreciated the strong grip but would rather avoid the cause of it: Wanda's exasperation with her. While she managed to annoy her newfound friend fairly often with her exuberant hand gestures that usually ended up smacking someone in the face, her occasional stupendously ridiculous ideas, and general idiotic antics, Lian's proclivity to tactlessly evade topics she'd rather avoid infuriated Wanda the most. Lian had been the recipient of quite a few violent body-shakes such as this. When Wanda finished jarring her, Lian waited for her skull to stop rattling before emitting a tired sigh. Silently she counted down the seconds until Wanda laid in on her, providing her with an updated version of the same lecture she'd received no less than six times.

"I don't understand how you can be so open about everything else, from the number of freckles on your shoulders to the deformity of your grandmother's feet, yet be so unwilling to answer simple questions about certain habits or behavioral tendencies. It's maddening. You have bountiful opinion and input on any topic other than your mending psyche. I've debated on the merits of Sunday fast food service for hours with you, but you're totally unforthcoming about your social life in California. I can't comprehend the difference. If it's too personal, at least say so! Anyway, I doubt the name of your college roommate is any more personal than that of your childhood pet!" Wanda ranted.

The elevator doors slid open. Blake Westerly, accompanied by a woman in a plum-colored pantsuit, hesitated before slipping inside. Lian tried to make eye contact with him, seeking help to alleviate Wanda's current bitterness toward her, but the boy tucked himself into the corner and positioned his companion between them. Wanda recaptured her attention soon enough with a sharp tug on her arm.

"Lian!"

Lian tore her arm out of Wanda's grasp and levelled her with a sharp glare. "Look, there are some things I just _can't_ share, okay? I don't make you talk about bringing your brother back, so don't pressure me about my demons," she bit scathingly, voice dripping acid.

Wanda blinked slowly at her. The rich brown of her irises, sometimes deceptively swirling with a green that made her ponder if they were in fact hazel, muddied; the glimmering behind the now russet hue was entirely magical and not that of emotion. Lian tensed; she'd deduced any glowing was a precursor to the crimson mist, and if they were swirling like that, it signalled she was grappling with control. As much as Wanda may have learned about Lian from her babbling, spending the last week or so with the enhanced girl also taught the redhead quite a bit about the Sokovian twin.

For example, when Wanda was without a response, it wasn't a good thing. It meant either she was too hurt to speak or too brimming with anger to risk unleashing it by uttering a sound. Lian found _this_ out during another cafeteria escapade courtesy of Blake when Hank tried to take revenge and poured ice water all over Wanda, mistaking her for Lian. How he managed to do that, neither girl had figured out yet.

"I didn't expect you to share everything," Wanda said quietly, clenching her fists as if to keep the red energy in. She very well may have been doing just that for all Lian knew. "I did expect you to be mature about it and tell me when I crossed a line rather than let it fester."

"I have a habit of letting my wounds fester. That's why those lines are there," Lian replied, her voice icier than intended. She cleared her throat and rubbed her neck self-consciously. The bruises inflicted by Wanda's mental choke hold, surprisingly real in its physical attributes, had finally faded; today was the first day she felt comfortable baring her neck, no turtlenecks or high collars or makeup to cover any lasting marks.

"Maybe this time you should cross them so they can heal," suggested Wanda.

Lian lifted her gaze, tipping back her sheltering hood to reveal her quivering form: dark bags under her eyes, pallid skin from lack of being under the sun, a red nose befitting of Rudolph, and a slight tremor she knew she'd had since she awoke from her coma traumatized and refusing to eat until they resorted to the tubes. She felt so vulnerable and weak, and she was. Swaddling herself in old, baggy clothes that reeked of memory and security was her sanctuary. How could she step across that barrier and face all of the things that haunted her? "I'm too scared," she whispered.

Wanda shook her head. "You're not scared to face them, Lian. You're scared of what will happen if you don't."

Purple Suit cleared her throat, ostentatiously adjusting her grip on her briefcase. "Are you two girls finished with your daily dose of melodrama?"

Lian faked a cough into her elbow, abashed, while Wanda glared at the woman until Blake traded places.

The car slowed smoothly to a gentle thudding stop. The doors remained shut until Wanda typed in a code. Frowning, Lian opened her mouth to question their location―surely they were just going for a routine session―but the glimpse of people expectantly waiting for them to disembark from their transportation had her hurriedly replacing her fallen hood.

Blake prodded at her back until she followed Wanda out. Purple Suit made a beeline for the spread of beakers, test tubes, and delicate machinery laid out like a buffet in a fully-equipped lab. Lian tracked her giddy movements as she darted around the chem set. It reminded her of when she'd been promoted and first seen her new tech equipment at work. Speaking of work, Tony was lounging beside a holographic screen displaying lines of data clearly in the process of being decrypted. He winked at her, tossing blueberries in his mouth while his fingers flew across the projected keyboard. It was seeing Tony do manual work that really made Lian miss JARVIS.

"I have to say thanks, kid, for getting yourself blown up. Checking in on you gives me a good excuse to stop by and play with the toys," drawled Tony.

"Toys?" Lian repeated, interest immediately sparked. She'd visited Tony's workshop at the Malibu mansion once, before it was destroyed. Pepper had her over for dinner and had given her a grand tour. They'd stopped by while he was immersed in his latest project so Pepper could yell at him about some meeting or other he purposefully missed, contrary to his halfhearted excuses that he lost track of time. He always had the best tech, and if she was lucky, sometimes he would be gracious enough as to dump her with the faulty prototypes.

"Easy tiger," Tony cautioned, his eyes dancing. "Not yet. I promise I'll get you some tech soon, but they've gotta finish testing you first. Can't have you in danger of electronics until they manage to wrap their heads around the results."

Disappointed, she glanced around the wide space, housing everything from a functional lab to a food court to an aerial obstacle course to a shooting range. Though admittedly the lab was not as grand or advanced as the personal ones designated for Dr. Banner, Tony, Dr. Selvig, and a couple other renowned scientists that she'd seen both here at the facility and at Avengers Tower back when it was singularly Stark's. The physical section occupied most of the space, with a network of hallways branching off to the opposite end of the sublevel, leading to Oz for all she knew. She grinned in delight; the open loft above contained a bank of computer terminals among other delicious items. She resisted the impulse to rush for the stairs as she identified familiar tech from back home.

Yet Lian didn't think they'd brought her here to gawk at the diverse array of equipment.

"Tests?" She cocked her head. "The results are in? No more needles?"

"That depends on the results, which they won't let me see. Everyone has forgotten that I bankroll this place! With this low level of appreciation, you never know, I may go rogue and decide not to pay the electricity bill next month! Which, by the way, would be outrageously high if this place was not supported by clean energy, which I also have the handle on, just like with the Tower. So I could cut the power indefinitely and you'd all come crying," he ranted.

"I'm sure they're planning you a surprise party as a show of their gratitude, Tony," Lian said lazily, sarcasm abounds.

"Ooh, there better be―"

"If you say what I think you are going to say, I'll order Friday to deny you access, even if it means you get vaporized on the front lawn," interjected Rhodes, striding towards them from the depths of the room, which apparently extended beyond Lian's sight.

"I designed Friday, and I rank higher than you. I can override practically any command you give her," said Tony. "Just ask Old Man Rogers. I'm second-in-comand."

"I thought you retired," countered a redheaded woman in a black catsuit, following behind Rhodes. Vision trailed at the back of the line, floating a few inches above the floor. Lian clamped her mouth shut or else her jaw would've dropped to the floor. Instinctively, she edged closer to Tony, unnerved by the arrivals of new people filtering into the nearby space.

"There is no retirement. I'm the hero the world deserves, but not the hero it needs," deadpanned Tony.

Lian snorted. Every head except for Purple Pantsuit's turned to her; she gazed owlishly back at them, a faux innocent stare she perfected to combat the puppy dog eyes of her sisters. Eventually they returned their attention to whatever they previously had been focusing on, excluding the redhead she now recognized as Black Widow.

Widow remained fixated, pinning Lian to her place with the intensity of her appraisal. This was a woman who had seen, suffered, and caused more horrors than Lian could imagine. She'd saved the world twice now, and if conspiracy theorists were to be true, the majority of the population inbetween during that showdown battle in D.C. when it turned out some terrorist agency had corrupted S.H.I.E.L.D.. Black Widow had held more lives in her hands, the decision to kill or save resting upon her shoulders, than Lian would probably ever know, even if she magically blossomed into a social butterfly. As much as that intimidated her, it also founded a sort of thrill. How must it feel to fall asleep at the end of each day knowing there was still a planet full of people who could too?

Maybe this hero-worship thing was corrupt in itself; she may be a hero now, but the Widow was once a deadly assassin. Perhaps Lian should save the fangirl adoration for Captain America, someone more "aesthetically pleasing" to the public as a morallistic heroic icon.

Nope.

Black Widow was a badass. And she was a woman. Both seemed to be in short supply in the hero business.

"You're Liana, right?"

"Lian," she corrected.

Widow tilted her head. "Your file says Liana."

"My file didn't grow up with people pronouncing my name differently every time. Lian is easier, simpler. Less elegant."

"You don't like classy?"

"Not if I can help it."

Widow grinned. She offered her hand. Lian shook it, internally proud of herself for not whimpering at the older woman's iron grip. "It'll be good to have you around, Lian. We could use more girls with spunk." Before Lian registered the movement, Widow was inspecting a strand of her hair; her bun had collasped spectacularly. "Are you a natural?"

"Redhead, that is?" At Widow's nod of confirmation, Lian answered, "Of course. I've got the notorious temper to match."

"Excellent. Someone's gotta keep these boys in line," Widow said, winking. She sauntered off, leaving Lian pleased she had somehow managed not to monumentally screw up the conversation.

Tony tapped her on the shoulder. "I've got a job for you," he whispered.

Lian inclined her head. Tony's jobs usually required breaking the law and most certainly would violate her agreement with Hill to behave. She hadn't even received the communication priveledge yet to have it be revoked.

"Friday's a half-baked JARVIS at best. I need you to decrypt a hard drive for me."

Lian's eyebrows furrowed, pinching together into one line. Her eyes flicked around the room, landing briefly on each of the numerous security cams visible to the trained eye. She knew without a doubt there would be more in place. She'd hacked similar setups enough times to understand there were always more hidden in plain sight and countless nooks and crannies. She smoothed out her forehead and turned to face Tony. Plastering on a bright smile, she embraced him, letting her hair fall around their faces to conceal their lips moving.

"Does this need to be off-record?" she murmured.

Tony snorted into her shoulder. "When is it ever not?" he replied. "I can deliver you a laptop, but no fancy gadgets or gismos or tablets. Get it done ASAP. There's something wrong, and I want to know what."

"What kind of encryption are we talking about? And should I go out of my way to crack it open but not take a peek?" Lian peppered.

"I thought it was standard S.H.I.E.L.D. encryption, but it's layered with algorithms that not only they shouldn't be using for supposedly _lightweight_ data, but that they've _never_ used on anything, and I've dug into some pretty classified info. I think I may have seen something similar elsewhere, so I can feed you a few stray clues to try. Be careful. Don't get caught," Tony whispered. He released her, pulling back but leaving his hands clamped tightly on her shoulders. His smile was gentle, but a darkness lurked behind his eyes. His warning rung in her head, repeating itself, sounding more ominous each time.

* * *

 **AN: So, somehow, edits to this chapter were not saved the first time around, forcing me to hurry through a second round. If you find spelling or grammatical errors, feel free to blame the site. Just to warn you lovely folk, I have several essays coming up, so the next update may not be on time, considering I'll be devoting the majority of my brain power to the Holocaust. Sorry, guys. As always, let me know what you like and do not like, heap praise or critique, both are welcome. Just please be nice about it.**


	10. Part I: Chapter Nine

**Chapter Nine**

* * *

Pietro skidded to a stop in the middle of the vast chamber. He sluggishly raked a hand through his wet hair, disappointed that the mad dash hadn't vitalized him as he hoped. Days of being confined indoors during the facility's lockdown following the bomb-smuggling adventure hadn't been pleasant, as he'd been spoiled by his habit of running laps around the woods. He'd been catching a few spare winks when some infernal godforsaken heavy rock started blaring in his new room―well, Wanda's room. He'd unofficially moved in, claiming the free bed once the observatory wing of the infirmary released him following his _explosive escapade_. It had taken him five minutes even with his speed to find the source of the music. Yes, it was music. He had no idea what the singer was garbling about other than that the male was screaming his lungs out. Classic Americans. He had fumbled with the phone, eventually accidentally silencing it. After questioning the AI, he had pulled up the messaging function. There was one unread text from a contact labelled **_Motherboard_** _._

 _Hey Roadrunner, we need you down in the Basement ASAP entrance code 19644. Don't be afraid of the retinal scanner. ;) Aren't you squeamish for a dead guy?_

He didn't even bother with the pretense of wondering if it was anyone other than Stark.

He'd had to consult Friday for directions to the "Basement." He ended up taking the stairs when the elevator required him to input several more numbers just to take him down to that level.

"Pietro!" called Wanda, waving him over to one of the boxing rings. He dutifully trotted over, ignoring the twinge of discomfort at the familiar square. "Rhodey wants to spar."

He stiffened. "I'm tired."

Wanda frowned. "You're never tired. Be a good sport. Fight him," she encouraged.

Pietro reminded himself Wanda had never seen one of his fights. "I don't think so." Glancing at the empty chair next to her, he asked, "Where is your friend?"

"Reviewing her bloodwork. Why are you trying to distract me?" persisted his sister.

He gritted his teeth. "I don't want to fight, Wanda." Already the prospect of jumping in the ring again dredged up old memories of broken bones and bruises he didn't particularly want to relive.

But he was faster now. He was strong; he had the advantage; he had _power._

And he couldn't very well turn down the challenge.

Pietro shook his head, a smirk falling on his lips. "Alright," he consented, "I'll do it."

Wanda grinned, that devilishly devious smile she gave whenever she was up to something.

His smirk dimmed.

"Rhodey!" she trilled. No response. No jumping down from the rafters or materializing from the shadows. Pietro half-expected that sort of unorthodox appearance, even if Rhodes seemed to be normal. Ordinary. Human. A normal, ordinary, entirely human lieutenant colonel who was best friends with Tony Stark and had an Iron Man suit of his own, which he apparently used for government sanctioned missions with peace-keeping objectives according to Wanda. He hadn't bothered reading the official files on all of his new "teammates."

"Looks like there will be no fight after all," said Pietro, surprised to find himself disappointed.

"Fight? What fight?"

Pietro leaped backward, shouting a stream of curses in Sokovian, as a body in a red and blue leotard lowered itself from the rafters, hanging upside down by some kind of white ultra-thin springy cable. Wanda dissolved into laughter. The full-suited figure peeled a mask off his head, revealing a human face. Panting, Pietro scrutinized the disheveled brown hair and inquisitive hazel eyes peering curiously at him. The leotard exposed no skin with blue legs and a red torso and possibly separate pieces resembling gloves and boots, or that may have been the design. Black strands intersected and tracked across the red. Was that supposed to be a spider on his chest? Not a very realistic drawing―Pietro had killed enough while Wanda squealed to vouch for that―but, he grudgingly admitted, an iconic symbol. Did that mean the fine lines covering the whole thing were an imitation of webs?

His eyes traced the 'cable' that suspended the lanky boy from the ceiling beams. No way―that was _not_ a web.

Detaching himself from the line with a flick of his wrist, the kid flipped, landing nimbly on his feet. Grinning bashfully at Wanda, he missed Pietro's glower. Extending his hand to Pietro, he introduced himself, "Peter Parker. Wanda's told me a lot about you."

Pietro's eyes narrowed. _Why was she friends with so many males?_

Unaware of the hole he was digging for himself, Peter continued, "She was really nice about me barging into the Tower and demanding to join the team. By nice, I mean she didn't beat the living daylights out of me." His laugh died awkwardly once he noticed Pietro's bland lack of amusement. Pietro struggled to hide a smile as the boy shot Wanda a helpless look. "Well, I better return the new prototype so Tony can make a list of the materials I'll need. I'm skipping school tomorrow to start constructing the device now that we've finalized the design. Tony's giving me full reign over his lab―can you believe it? The trial run went brilliantly, Wanda, just like you said. I've gotta run―Aunt May will have my head if I'm not home in time for dinner. I heard it was supposed to be raining buckets later, so stay inside and stay dry. See you tomorrow?"

Pietro clenched his fists as Parker addressed his twin. He didn't care if the kid was still in his late teens and far younger than his sister appeared to prefer from her ogling of the Vision and the Captain (he wrote both off as calculated curiosity and awed respect). Wanda had befriended too many men for his liking, and he'd scare this presumably impressionable arachnid-obsessed wannabe superhero off if he could. He stepped forward―

"Wanda!"

He groaned, hands swinging limply at his sides. Liana bounded towards them, beaming at the group. She faltered as her eyes passed over Parker, but her bright smile didn't dim. Pietro rolled his eyes as she panted upon her arrival. Leaning heavily on Wanda, she pressed a hand to her chest and offered the boy a wan greeting.

"Sorry, I'm in recovery. I was strictly instructed to lay around like a cat and avoid physical exertion. Do you think running qualifies?" Wanda looped her arm around Liana's waist, letting the equally short girl tilt her head onto her shoulder. Pietro almost growled; her joke elicited a grin and a bubbling laugh from Parker, whom his unceasing glare had had shaking in his boots previously until his intimidation had been so rudely interrupted.

Parker touched Liana's arm. At least his attention was diverted from Pietro's sister. "I don't know. I think they might set the line at mountain climbing," he chuckled. "Peter Parker, intern Avenger, as Tony calls me."

Liana snorted. "Been there. Sort of. At least the intern bit. Has he learned your real name yet? My personal belief is for a while he purposefully gets it wrong. I'm Lian McKinnis, by the way, resident invalid and science-experiment-gone-wrong."

"Seriously? Me too. Radioactive spider bite. Most of the time he refers to me as 'unpaid intern' or 'the bug,'" said Parker.

"Mechanical mishap. Did you hear about that lab explosion in London a few months ago? That was me. I'm not sure exactly what happened, but I think they suspect it altered my DNA. Why else would they be running so many tests, right?" 'Lian' mused.

Frowning, Parker opened his mouth to reply, but the appearance of Stark at his shoulder interrupted. Steel edged the man's tone as he steered the kid away, saying, "Come on, Darcy, let's get you out of that thing. No one likes talking to some one still experiencing puberty wearing skintight spandex for too long."

"Bye Peter!" called Lian cheerfully while Wanda waved.

Ten seconds elapsed. "I don't like him," announced Pietro.

Wanda raised her eyebrows. "You don't like any of my friends," she pointed out.

Feeling argumentative, he searched for a memory in which he sincerely enjoyed the company of or at least tolerated one of his sister's companions. He had ignored her friends before their parents died, and after, at the orphanage, the few girls she found friendship in annoyed him, a sentiment he expressed vocally on numerous occasions. There were no recent people who weren't also his friends that he could suggest. Which left him with― "I like Lian," he denied. Their mouths fell open in tandem, and he squeezed his eyes shut, rubbing his forehead. "Wait, wait, I take it―"

"No, you can't take it back!" hollered Lian.

 _"I take it back!"_ he sang, hopping out of his sister's reach before she could deliver the nerve pinch he anticipated. He found himself 'caged' between the two snarling petite women. Glancing down at either of them with mock fury painted on their smirking faces, he marvelled at the height difference. He had about five inches on Wanda; he supposed he hadn't been in Lian's presence enough to suffer the neck pain of looking down to meet her eyes constantly. He assumed her physique was similar to his sister's beneath the baggy clothes. He would love to see her stand next to Thor, dwarfed by the Asgardian giant, over six feet and packed with muscle.

The girl's eyes glinted. Pietro zipped away, cackling maniacally, as her sloppy swing connected with nothing but air. He paused at Wanda's back, catching the scent of strawberries. He snatched a lock of her hair, taking a deep sniff. A frown marred the smug satisfaction previously dominating his features, and his amusement trickled away, replaced by perturbed puzzlement. A storm cloud settled on his pinched brow. Lightning forked in cerulean eyes.

"You smell like fruit," he confronted, folding his arms and pinning Wanda with an accusatory, expectant gaze. He perfected this look over the years spent coralling his twin away from anything that might attract the opposite sex.

Wanda mirrored his stance. Arching an eyebrow, she dryly rebutted, "That is usually the effect of fruit-scented soap."

Waves crashed, white foam swirling in the raging depths as the two seas whipped and thrashed like an unbroken stallion struggling to free itself of constricting binds. Ominous ashen clouds heavy with fat drops of rain thickened into a blanket obscuring the sky. The tone of the storm intensified, threatening to summon electricity. "Why would you want to smell like fruit?" questioned Pietro. Absentmindedly, he checked Lian to see if she might be the instigator of this. No, her hair carried faint traces of coconut. He returned to his battle of wills, the storm flaring once more. He agitatedly squashed down the random spark of disappointment that flared when Lian shuddered and pulled her hair over her shoulder protectively.

"Maybe I like fruit and its various themed hygenial products?" suggested Wanda, remaining aggressively tight-lipped about her true motives.

Pietro shook his head. "You forget. You love chocolate. You bought every available cocoa-flavored product once you arrived in America and stuffed yourself so full of it you were retching for hours. You told me this. Why a sudden change?" Narrowing his eyes, his gaze flicked to each male member of the Avengers. "Does one of your new friends enjoy a partiality for fruit?"

The appearance of Lian at his sister's elbow mildly surprised him. They'd known each other a few days; he didn't anticipate the diminuative girl jumping to the rescue with a wordy excuse, stuttering her way through another of the lengthy rambles she seemed to engage in when flustered or excited. He was tempted to grab her tongue in order to cease its incessant flapping. Just as he seriously considered exploring this avenue and weighing the con of her saliva versus the pro of prohibiting further speech, he caught the tail end of her babbling, a fragment of a blather so bizarre and out of context of the scenario it left him reeling with bewilderment.

 _"What color is your hair anyway? Depending on the lighting, it changes colors, fools the mortal eye. Sometimes it's white, like yard snow before children tramp it to slush, other times more silver, occasionally even an extremely pale blond. I'm guessing it isn't natural. Wanda doesn't have outrageous hair coloring, and I can't imagine a guy like_ you _willingly pursuing an adventurous, controversial style like that. So it must have been a joke, or a side effect of your super powers. Sorry, Wanda, I forgot you don't like that term. To be honest, you guys don't look anything alike, which is odd, you two being twins and all; you at least have the same real hair color, right? Sometimes focusing on one thing makes it easier to shut out the bad stuff, or if I feel an oncoming panic attack or disassociation or some such undesirable experience. It's strange, given that panic attacks can be_ caused _by focusing too much on one thing. I must have focused too hard on your head once. Okay, your hair is seriously driving me crazy because I can't decide on the exact color. You have dark roots―I bet you're brunette like your sister! That makes sense! I've figured this out! The 'shock of white hair' thing you've got going on is a result of whatever made you gain your speed! Did I already say that? Do_ you _even know what color it is? I've been trying to figure it out ever since I first saw you on the roof, after my head cleared, with the sunset at your back and fire in your eyes. It was really hypnotic, to tell you the truth. I probably shouldn't have fixated on it so much though. Besides Wanda telling me to shut up about it because it's creepy how I pay so much attention to detail. You aren't supposed to think your best friend's brother is attractive, and so far you seem like a jerk."_

The girl powered on, apparently oblivious to her confessions and the concept that speaking them aloud ascertained they would be overheard. Perhaps she was so accustomed to any listeners being incapable of deciphering words from the mess of roundabout sentences that chased each other through her thoughts that the idea anyone actually could do the 'impossible' was indeed impossible to fathom.

Pietro winced as the subject changed from his hair to sleeping habits, probably prompted by the random observation she included about Wanda's bedhead each morning. Yet despite the irritation the babbling posed, Pietro found the whirlwind unfiltered stream refreshing. She spoke rapidly, cramming phrases in her mouth and spitting them out as if she would choke on them if she failed to release them. There was something fascinating about the speed of her mind, so akin to his own.

As if a switch had been flipped, Lian snapped her mouth shut. Her cheeks flamed as red as her hair. With a jolt, he recalled that first image he viewed in her file during the meeting with Hill, which depicted her as fierce, with a scowl twisting her mouth into a fanged snarl and eyes blazing with emerald fire, the flames of her hair symbolizing the heat of the wrath she was surely shaking with, barely able to contain, that slipped out in a growl or a hiss.

That Lian McKinnis, that girl tagged with the codename _"Jumper"_ was not the fragile, recovering invalid suffering from a mental attack before him.

By the time he realized Lian had achieved her goal of distracting him, Wanda had slipped away and was now engrossed in a conversation with that humanoid robot. His eyes narrowed. _Could―?_

In his scrutiny of their stances, he forgot Lian's presence. Her hand feebly gripped his forearm then. He shook her off abruptly. "What?" he snapped. _Can't you see I'm spying on my sister and her potential suitors and my potential homicide victims?_

"Do you know if that guy has a name? Or is it just the Vision?" Lian inquired, eyebrows furrowed. He realized they had been watching the same scene, and a smirk twitched onto his lips. She continued without waiting for his reply, "You seem as new to this as I am, so I'm betting no. I asked Tony earlier if it was JARVIS, since, you know, he _sounds_ like JARVIS, but he said no, that the Vision was its own person. His own person. Unique. Kind of like her."

"Wanda and I―" Pietro began indignantly.

She interrupted, "Are twins. Are both freaky 'enhanced' human beings. But your powers are physical, whereas she's diving into this incredibly immense field of mentally-oriented power no one has touched before. There's no else here like her. There are plenty of guys out there these days who signed themselves up for a trial run and now have muscles and super strength and morality. Can lift weights and run faster than a NASCAR driver, but _she's_ all on her own figuring this out, just like him."

"Are you trying to reason with me?" scoffed Pietro.

Lian squinted. "Yes?" she tried.

"I'm a protective older brother. There is no reasoning," he stated matter-of-factly.

"I wouldn't know," she pointed out. "I have no brothers. I have my two sisters. I thought you were able to understand me the other night?"

"No, I understood you. Just like I understood that you're scarily obsessed with my hair. The protective older sibling concept is a universal theme that exists in every brotherly or sisterly relationship," he replied.

At his side, a smile tugged at Lian's mouth. "You're not so bad, Pietro," she mumbled. His gaze shifted, swinging to follow her as she strode in the opposite direction back toward the lab setup, where a woman in purple beckoned enthusiastically. While he still didn't trust her not to once more succumb to the madness of the mental attack should it return and he wasn't sure of her motives in befriending his sister, she was less than he suspected her to be, and more than he assumed. He hoped in that brief moment, for her sake, she would turn out okay.

* * *

"I got held up in the artillery range. So, are you up for that sparring session?"

Pietro made to hop over the ropes, smirk already crawling onto his mouth.

Rhodes gripped his bicep. "Oh no, not in there. The type of combat we'll be practicing requires a bigger arena," he said.

Curiosity piqued, he followed the soldier deeper into the sublevel, weaving through the equipment until they reached a massive glass and steel chamber with several capsules within that reminded him of the shuttle simulators he'd seen once raiding a space training facility. Grumbling, he wriggled his way into one of the skintight full body suits arranged in lockers beside the door. He was surprised to discover one had already been designated for him. He tucked his clothes into the compartment warily. Zipping the suit up to his chin, he tested his motion capacity, instantly astounded by how the material rippled with each of his movements, busily adapting to his body even as Pietro still marvelled at the process. Concentrating, he performed a few simple exercises at top speed, suspicious if the high tech suit could withstand his enhanced abilities as well. Sure enough, jogging a few laps around the place, it conformed to meet his physical needs, practically molded to him by now.

"You like it?" Rhodes chuckled, outfitted in his own beneath a skeleton of the Iron Man armor. "It took Tony, Helen, Jane Foster, Dr. Selvig, and Dr. Lemeul to design one specifically for you that would function as a public icon and work in the Box's simulations like the rest of them."

Pietro frowned. "Public icon? I don't have a costume. I'm not a superhero." He hefted the sports brand garb he'd been wearing for the past several days since Wanda acquired it for him, similar to gym clothes, that he preferred. "This―this is my costume," Pietro said, shaking the Under Armour sweatshirt clenched in his fist.

Rhodes punched in a code at the door to the glass room. The outline of the door frame itself was indiscernible until it swung open on silent hinges, spilling bright, painful incandescence over the threshold. "Not anymore. If you want to be an Avenger, you've got to look the part," the older man declared. He gestured into the room. "Whenever you're ready, kid."

"What is it?" Pietro asked, averting his eyes.

"Simulation room, to immitate realistic combat scenarios we might encounter. We'll feel everything as if we're actually there. Exhaustion, pain, desperation, determination. Sometimes it's programmed to give us commands, goals to achieve. Other times we use it to prepare ourselves for failed missions where we lose the battle. If we 'die' in there, the system will make it feel real before it shuts off. The suits are responsible for that. This time, I've preset it so we have conflicting agendas. You're trying to stop me, kill me, incapacitate me, whatever it takes to prevent me from _winning_ ," explained Rhodes. He cocked his head. "Maybe it will be a lesson for both of us."

Pietro sucked in a breath, eyes blown wide by the current of intimidating information. He steeled himself. Cockiness in place, smirk fixed to his lips, he replied, "What are we waiting for?"

* * *

 **AN: Guess who still exists, against all odds. I am _so, so sorry_ for not updating in a _month!_ I hadn't realized it had been so long, and I feel completely horrible. I can't promise it won't ever happen again, but however long it takes I do intend on telling all of this story, and should something truly awful happen that stops me from doing so, I'll inform you all via one last update, and the same goes for an unavoidable hiatus. (Just putting that out there; not to sound foreboding or anything.)**

 **I wanted to rewatch old Spiderman movies in order to portray Peter Parker as accurately as possible, but sadly Netflix has failed me. If he seems too chipper or young, which are my main concerns, let me know. Apparently a younger version of Spiderman will be featured in Captain America: Civil War, and they've cast Tom Holland in the role. For this fic, feel free to imagine him as whoever you want. I'm testing the waters with Peter currently, and if you asked for his placement in his timeline in this fic, I wouldn't be able to tell you.**

 **Happy Halloween, everyone!**


	11. Part I: Chapter Ten

**WARNING: blood mention, death, child loss**

 **Chapter Ten**

* * *

"We've succeeded in isolating the genetic anomaly in your DNA sequence, so the next step is to identify the mutation," Purple Suit enthused. The apparently familiar setting invigorated the woman, sparking her to an almost exhaustingly enthusiastic work ethic. Lian now knew more about the mutations, or irregularities, in the subhuman 'enhanced' genome than she cared to, thanks to Purple Suit's eagerness to share knowledge. The geneticist delighted in her work; she thought Lian deserved to be informed of every step of the process. While she appreciated this gesture, Lian didn't think explaining the science behind it all was completely necessary.

"That's good," offered Lian, taking a puff from the inhaler she'd been given earlier that morning at her daily exam.

Luckily, as if the heavens sent him to answer her desperate pleas for a savior, Blake materialized at her elbow before Purple Suit could continue her engaging and colorful lecture. Sporting a radiant smile, he brandished a clipboard at the disconcerted woman, spouting technical jargon characteristic of business contracts while jabbing an elegant fountain pen at various places on the pages. Twin poinsettias blossomed in Purple Suit's cheeks, young innocent blooms cultivated by a skilled hand treacherously talented at coaxing ephemeral buds to fruition.

This was Blake's speciality, according to Wanda, who had known him from encounters in the cafeteria a bit longer than Lian had. He was using the tone that, compared to his regular voice, meant he would rather be anywhere else than having that conversation. Masked by his charm though, Purple Suit hadn't caught on.

Lian gathered up her medications, new inhaler, portfolio of everything that was wrong with her that seemed to thicken by the hour, and the other equipment she was forced to lug around. She loaded her bag as discreetly as possible, grateful for Blake's distraction and opportunity for escape.

Though, watching her friend falsely woo the woman, Lian pitied Purple Suit, recognizing the flush climbing her neck to match the blush adorning her angular face. Her sense of humanity flared; she regretted allowing Blake to perform the ploy, for she _knew_ that false hope cut deep, and the unveiling of such bittersweet deception inflicted wounds that never quite healed, leaving ugly scars behind. Lian could imagine the cloying words falling onto eager ears.

Transported to similar instances in which she suffered identical delusions and the ensuing humiliation, Lian breathed deeply, an inhale of guilt and empathy and resignation, an exhale of determination and contrition and wrongs to be righted. Even if Purple Suit ran the risk of boring her to death, having her friend hit on the woman in order to get out of the situation was a bit low.

"Excuse me, Blake," she interjected. She ignored the glower now aimed at her back as she turned fully to her accomplice. His eyes screamed at her, confusion clear as day. The ruse dropped. "I'm exhausted from all this probing. Would you mind helping me with the coffee machine? I don't have the best track record with appliances."

Lian pretended not to notice when Purple Suit failed spectacularly at discreetly passing a slip of paper to Blake as they departed stiffly from the scientist's company. She didn't have to read the hasty scrawl to know what it said, and neither did Blake as he crumpled it in his fist the moment they disappeared from sight.

"Mind telling me what that was back there?" hissed Blake. "I had her totally worked over―"

"That's the point," said Lian, following the curve of the corridor toward the break room introduced to her by Purple Suit herself. "I felt bad. She actually has a crush on you. It was _so_ obvious. Kind of creepy too, considering you're what―twenty-three? Twenty-four? She's got to be in her mid-thirties. I appreciate what you were trying to do―really, I do, and you were terrific at it―you are definitely good at your job. But there's a good chance I'm dying, and I'd like to go out honest. Seems like the best way to avoid ending up downstairs. Anyway, considering, the whole thing was hypocritical of me. Now, about you. Why didn't you pursue a career in acting?"

He snorted. "My stockholder father disillusioned me of _that_ dream early on. Nipping the fool's bud, he called it. Opened my eyes to how _unrealistic_ it was. He was furious when I joined the drama club in high school. I would've majored in it at college, just to piss him off, if I hadn't been recruited in my second year. I guess the lesson stuck, regardless. I was never seriously passionate about it, you know? Like, I was _good_ at it, but it wasn't what I wanted to do anymore. More of a hobby I used to rebel against him. Always the _different_ child. Working for SHIELD utilized the talent though, and this kind of work that _matters_ was what I always really wanted to do. Not that it wasn't a trip to hell and back to get to where I am." Blake's hands moved expertly over the controls for the coffee machine. "Honestly, though, you don't think I'm callous enough to lead her on and break her heart now, do ya? Of course not. I've got all the women here waiting in line, but that's not my fault. I shed the skin as quick as I don it, but they don't seem to believe me, despite what examples of PDA I may engage in. You'd think the risk of probation by breaking the protocol against PDA would be proof enough for them that I'm serious. You should have never described it as hypocritical; now I'm intrigued as to little Liana McKinnis' no doubt dirty past working in the lecherous office of playboy Tony Stark."

Reverting to effective feline tactics, Lian batted at his arm, seeking to swipe the smug smirk from his face. Towering over her at an impressive height of roughly around 6'3", he eluded her reach. Chuckling, Blake ruffled her hair as an elder brother would do to a younger sibling. She'd seen Oliver do it to Chase enough times to know it was affectionate; the flimsy relationship she maintained with her own older sister lacked those kinds of gestures.

"Stop!" she complained, though the command was rendered irrelevant by her rampant giggling.

Blake relented, leaning casually against the countertop. At the beeping prompt, he bounded over to the coffee machine and prepared them both mugs. He sauntered over to join Lian on the leather couch, ceramic cup in hand, sprawling across the length with a leonine grace.

She sipped the bitter concoction. The hot liquid burned as it slid down her throat but the warmth pooling her belly made the swelling of her tongue worth it. "How did you know I refuse to consume any coffee unless it's black?" she asked, wrapping chilled hands securely around the plain mug. Heat seeped through the glazed clay, infusing her hands with the warmth they sorely needed.

"Back in the cafeteria, when we first met," clarified Blake. "You and Wanda got in an argument about black versus flavored. I paid attention."

As he spoke, his words nurtured the smile growing on Lian's face until his nonchalant confession had elicited a full-blown grin worthy of the Cheshire Cat. "Why are you looking at me like that?" he demanded, drawing his legs to his chest.

Lian didn't dim an iota. "You paid attention to some random nutcase and remembered one ridiculous conversation?" She beamed.

"Yeaaahhh, whyyy?" Blake drew out.

"No one has ever done that before for me," admitted Lian. "With my college friends, we were always so preoccupied the little stuff never registered. We never needed to remember each other's coffee preferences because the barista had memorized them for us. The doorman of the apartment building knew to remind us of the flat number or got us to our places when we needed help with the groceries. The librarian had book recommendations and the guidance counsellor had visits from all of us, which meant she was aware of our individual problems and quirks, so most of the time it was her advising on us birthday gifts or ideas for dates. There was always an excuse not to know the insignificant details about those closest to us. I guess you could have called us a bit self-absorbed."

"That sucks," deadpanned Blake. "They don't sound like reliable friends and more than a _bit_ self-absorbed. We should find you new ones. I'll introduce you to some of my coworkers later. How about Rose Lemeul? Darcy Lewis? Devon Parlay?" he suggested.

Lian choked. "Rose Lemeul? Devon Parlay?"

"Come on, don't judge a book by its cover," scolded Blake. Her heart dropped into her feet. Blake's joking demeanor faded; he must have seen some unrestrained emotion on her face. "What's wrong?"

"Rose Lemeul and Devon Parlay are two of my closest friends."

* * *

"This doesn't make any sense," grumbled Pietro, jabbing aimlessly at the monitor attached seamlessly to his sleeve. His insistence on the inaccuracy of the device failed to dampen _its_ persistence to the contrary.

His fruitless arguments with the piece of tech managed to distract him long enough for Rhodes to move into position to spring an ambush in the form of two dozen ninjas and a sniper on the rooftop conveniently in his blindspot. He spotted the bullet arcing toward him just in time to dive out of the way, immediately seeking cover. He died being pumped full of bullets. He had no desire to repeat the experience. Taking stock of the situation, he decided he was screwed, if not thoroughly screwed.

Wanda was the capable multitasker of their duo, unfortunately, and he had three different problems demanding his attention.

He could incapacitate the sniper fairly easily, bypassing the team of adversaries before they registered his disappearance. However, that plan left the refugees seeking shelter in the café at his back unprotected. He wouldn't risk their safety; securing civilians was his top priority. Yet he couldn't leave the sniper comfortably picking off victims from his nest. Was he fast enough to disarm them all before further harm could occur? If other distractions didn't plague him. One such distraction was responsible for his current predicament.

Rhodes, soldier gone wrong, wreaking havoc with stolen Iron Man tech coded specifically to him. Pietro realized the man must have interfaced with his monitor and hijacked it. Deeming the untrustworthy and susceptible device worthless, Pietro ripped the patch on his forearm off. If Pietro was lucky, Rhodes hadn't left him any more surprises; the faulty machinery wouldn't explode the moment he discarded it.

The twenty-four highly-trained men poised before him weren't _really_ ninjas―at least, Pietro hoped. They certainly displayed a talent for a swordwork and throwing shuriken, not to mention sported outfits similar to that of the media's interpretation of the _shenobi._ So Pietro had seen a few Hollywood action movies. Big deal. According to his sister though, the fact he willingly sat still for the duration of a film deserved to be treated as a miracle and exulted to the heavens.

The lead guy drew a katana from his back, and the rest followed suit, twenty-three eerie mirror images. They stalked forward as a single mass; the head lifted his foot for the first step, which was completed by the body fluidly. Pietro couldn't help shamelessly gawking at this incredible feat of synchronization.

 _You won't be admiring it when they all kill you in synchronization._

Right. Back to the mission. Wasn't there some protocol he was supposed to follow in this situation? He scoffed. _Protocol?_ Who was he? Hill? Captain Rogers?

No protocols, no limitations. He needed free range to move and act. Trying to play by the rules of the common man stifled him, smothered his ability to improvise and strategize, choked any intuition. Rhodes treated this like a game, as if they were all silly, expendable chess pieces―

Chess. That was it. Rhodes was playing a game of chess.

Pietro scanned the area, envisioning each opponent as a board piece and plotting his path toward victory or death. Rhodes' strategy offered a daunting challenge, true, but Pietro's father had been better. The man had taught him everything he knew about the game on the few occasional visits, though sometimes Pietro used to wonder if he was ever really talking about the game at all. By the time this occurred to Pietro, however, the random visitations had ceased, and neither he nor his sister ever saw the foreigner claiming to be their biological father again.

The leader of the hive abruptly charged, slashing with his blade where Pietro's head would have been. Instead Pietro dashed around him, twisting and performing crude acrobatics in order to avoid each whirlwind blade. Two broke the pattern, and he was forced to pause to disable them, costing him precious seconds spent battling foes still suffering the effects of the intense concentration required in order to move in such flawless unison. He broke through the wall of felled warriors, wincing at a sting in his shoulder. One ninja must have nicked him.

"Maximoff, this isn't your fight," said Rhodes, removing his face plate.

"Who's fight is it, then?" drawled Pietro.

Rhodes spread his arms. "Look around. Do you see any of your partners at your side, shoulder-to-shoulder with you? No reinforcements or backup either. That's because you're expendable. A tool. A puppet. They don't care whether you live or die, and you wouldn't be alive right now if you weren't working for them. They aren't your comrades or your friends. But I always have been. Maybe it's not me that you should be fighting." Rhodes's repulsors glowed, the bright white intensifying until two blasts shot out in rapid succession from each outstretched palm.

One caught him in the shoulder and another singed his hair. One of the ninjas had roused behind him and made the fatal mistake of rising to his feet just in time for his chest to be pulverized by stray fire. Rhodes' precision vanished. He fired wildly in all directions, repulsor beams transforming the damage into ruins and debris into rubble. The former soldier wasn't even focused on Pietro anymore, more intent on wreaking as much chaos and destruction as possible.

The last desperate acts of a man who knew he already lost.

Pietro's injury slowed him, his body expending more energy on attempting to knit his flesh back together than maintaining his speed. Movements more sluggish, the computers in Rhodes's suit anticipated his pattern, the other weapons independently targeting him. Evidently the tech was not aware of Rhodes's plan of dispensing havoc, or it didn't share his self-destructive attitude. Either way, War Machine was intelligent, and befitted his name. Between dodging intentional shots and the strategic toppling of certain buildings in order to compromise the structural integrity of the entire square, Pietro's path wasn't clear, and he didn't have the necessary speed to find one without being hit.

Bullets whizzed past him, pinging to the ground like raindrops all around. Swearing, he changed course. He'd forgotten about the sniper. He cursed as he was forced to choose between being flattened or getting shot. The projectile grazed his ear, carving a groove in his hair Wanda would no doubt tease him mercilessly about.

Following another of those impulses his twin swore would get him killed, he spun around and backed up, clearing distance between himself and his target. He didn't bother calculating angles. Inhaling, he dashed forward and kept running all the way up the side of the building where the sniper perched. He tripped on the roof's ledge and fell face first into the shooter's nest. Rightly startled, the person scrambled away. Shock at the invasion of his or her habitat robbed the mercenary of common functions, and weapons were left in the nest, digging into Pietro's ribs. Yeah, Pietro was shocked too. He didn't know he could do that or where the idea even came from. He clambered out of the nest.

"Get out of here," he growled. Abandoning gear and bravado alike, he or she (the person's identity was disguised completely) complied in favor of fleeing via fire escape.

Screams pierced the air, a banshee's wail, an omen of the death wrought by Pietro's hesitation―hesitation to kill his former ally without allowing him one last plea. He didn't turn to see the body fall, for he knew there would be a body. He'd heard screams like that before; he knew how they felt ripping out of your throat, and it was grief that produced them. Nothing else could bring forth from a human soul such a raw expression of _pain_.

Back on the ground in a second, the both of them now eye-to-eye, Rhodes glanced past him in the direction of the howl. Pietro didn't hesitate now, summoning all his energy and darting forward in a straight path. The weapons and missiles failed to recalibrate in time. He pulled his fist back in preparation for a speed-punch, one calculated to shatter bone. Taking advantage of the face plate Rhodes had yet to replace, Pietro slammed his fist into the man's jaw, the breaking of the bone audible as his hand reduced features to fragments. One punch would never make up for the lives stolen today, but Rhodes' life did not belong to Pietro. He would let those it did belong to deem fit his punishment.

Stepping away from the man's crumpled body, Pietro finally staggered backward, eyes instantly drawn to scene of a young man streaked in ash cradling a woman. Beside him, a smaller girl resembling the body was relentlessly scrubbing at her hands with the hem of her tattered skirt. No matter how she tried she couldn't rid her skin of the woman's blood that pooled around her chest. Her lips moved, but he couldn't hear what prayers she spoke for the dead, or words she whispered for the living.

As he approached, a wave of dizziness rushed over him, accompanied by a surge of nausea. He stumbled, falling to his knees, and vomited amidst the wreckage. He struggled to his feet, noting dimly in the back of his mind that it shouldn't hurt so much to move. He was closer now. His vision flickered in and out, swaths of darkness cutting across it, but he could see the dead woman―the _casualty_ , as she'd be listed in the mission report―clearly now where the man clutched her to his chest. Blood leaked out of her chest, glazed eyes trained unseeing on her mourners' faces. Her hands―

Her hands rested on her swollen stomach, as if her last action had been to feel her unborn child once more before she died.

 _Maybe we can save the baby, if I can get them to a hospital,_ he thought desperately. _An emergency C-section or something._

Except when he struggled to his feet, he caught sight of the wound inflicted by one of the ninjas. It oozed green, discoloring the prominent veins spreading from the gash. _Poison?_ his addled mind connected feebly. He made it a step farther before collapsing, crumbling into a heap next to the loved ones of the pregnant woman. Blood trickled from his lips. He registered the pain racking his body now, that despair and adrenaline provided mercy from.

 _Not again._ He couldn't die again. _I'm sorry._ He didn't know who he was apologizing to. Wanda? Clint? His head rolled to the side, his blurred, fading sight managing to focus on the mother-to-be he'd soon be joining. Maybe their blood would pool together, and somehow she could know how sorry he was that he couldn't save her.

The darkness claimed him, gathering him into its embrace once more, as if greeting an old friend.

* * *

He woke with a gasp, but he was not reborn. As quickly as he had surfaced, he was plunged back into another simulation that resembled reality far too much to not be real.

* * *

 _He's six years old and stumbling blind down the neat, white-stone-trimmed paths of the greenhouse. Mama warned them not to wander, to stay tucked to her side like ducklings to a mother goose or kittens curled together for warmth, like the ones Wanda rescued last week. The kittens are the reason why they visited the greenhouse. Mama had screamed yesterday, waking them up from their nap (Wanda was napping; Pietro was playing with his toy soldiers under his blankets because he was too old now for naps, even if Mama didn't believe him) and Pietro had rushed into the kitchen, ready to fell any monster that tried to eat his family. Except there were no monsters for him to slay, though the cats clearly thought the contrary: shards of pottery littered the tile, creating a treacherous obstacle course to reach the side of the woman crouched among the tattered remains of leafy green sprouts, shredded by claws that dispensed judgment upon the small herb garden without mercy._

He's twenty-four and zig-zagging through streets choked by debris. He swerved around a fallen lamppost, using the sudden diversion to skid around a corner into a rubble-packed alley roiling with flames and belching puffs of black smoke.

 _Pietro's lip wobbles as he stumbles in the direction he thinks Mama headed. She needed to get lots of new sprouts and he couldn't remember where each were. All the plants look the same to him; they all have petals and leaves and they're all the same obnoxiously bright shade of sickly neon orange that Papa banned Mama from decorating their apartment. The flowers hurt his eyes and make his stomach churn. His gaze swings desperately across the towering sea of manicured blooms that stretch on in all directions endlessly. The teacher had read an 'x-cerp' from an American book in class about naughty boys running away from home and getting lost in a cornfield. He shivers. Could this count as a cornfield?_

He managed to swing out of the alley before the androids on his tail fired a plasma shot that compromised the already crumbling structures and toppled the skeletons of the apartment complexes that formerly trapped the inferno. Free of its barriers now, it rolled out like a wave; new fire caused from the explosion leapt to join its brethren in pillaging the ruins. The screaming of civilians synched with the furious beating of his heart. His orders for this second mission were strictly evacuation right now; they needed his primary focus to be centered on removing any potential casualities from the battlefield before they became more names to be chiselled into the marble memorials that would be erected once this was over. As if they were so sure it would be over, and once the ashes cooled there would still be a world left to build those monuments to the dead.

He couldn't rely on his ears alone; he needed Rhodes, his designated eyes-in-the-sky, to report the locations of pockets of endangered people to him, those whose extraction was imperative lest they be killed before he reached them in turn. The comm in his ear emitted a shrill tone when he tried to reach the man or any of his teammates. Static buzzed. Pietro kept running even as his heart stalled in his chest. The comms were down. He was on his own.

 _He wished he had Wanda; she would know how to find Mama._

Pietro cursed out Steve mentally. Damn him for suggesting the separation training exercise and damn his sister for agreeing to it and shutting out any mental communication. The blame didn't really belong to either of them, both only acting on the best of intentions; none of them anticipated this mission, and the mind-link was such a constant factor it never occurred to Wanda to re-establish it before they parted again, something she hadn't needed to do since she learned how to control their connection under HYDRA's supervision. The link would automatically flare with proximity, but he couldn't find her. He couldn't find any of them.

 _If he couldn't find them, he'd be stuck in this greenhouse forever. He'd never make it out of the cornfield. He'd die of hunger before the bot-nists found his little cold body curled at the trunk of one of the evergreen trees―_

He ducked to avoid a shot from the Ultron-copy that appeared in front of him. He couldn't keep running forever. He'd tire; he'd lose focus; he'd get hit. Hit. Bullets raining down on him as he shielded Barton and the boy―

 _Evergreen trees! That was it; he remembered Mama suggesting to Wanda they peek at the Christmas trees, in case they spotted one early they might like for the rapidly-approaching holiday season._

―the second of relief and pride when he reached the pair in plenty of time to remove them from the danger at hand and succeeded in that task, and then the pain piercing him all at once now that his body had stilled and registered the damage inflicted by the myriad of bullets shattering bone and shredding muscle and puncturing organs. Shock descending over him and evaporating in the same instant, his body retaining the slimmest hope that it could repair itself quickly enough, granting him that wavering moment when Barton's eyes popped open and slid to his savior just in time to witness Pietro crack one last lopsided grin and provide one last pesky reiteration of the first words spoken to his former enemy, and then he was crumpling, and wondering why his voice sounded so shaky and faint in a way it hadn't since he hit puberty, and he tasted the tang of copper, black patches creeping into his vision. Suddenly the pain engulfing his body in flames and choking his brain in its toxic smoke vanished, cold replacing the heat as it crawled up his limbs to touch his heart, the curtain falling on his sight, and he distantly heard his sister scream, but he couldn't move, couldn't go to her, couldn't soothe her fear or vanquish her demons, and he tried to call out to her, _Wanda?_ _―_

 _"Pietro! Mama, it's Pietro! He found us! I told you he would find us!" cried Wanda, tugging on their mother's hand to drag her attention from the head botanist to whom she'd been in the midst of speaking._

 _Pietro raced towards them, furiously swiping away his panicked tears to prevent them blurring his vision any more. Mama whirled around. Finally reaching them, he leapt into her arms; she caught him just in time that they only stumbled and did not fall. She pressed her face to his mess of curls while he burrowed his into her neck. He wrapped his arms tight around her, determined to never let go lest he become lost again. Soon he felt Wanda join the embrace, her slimy fingers twisting into his shirt. Mama peppered both their faces with kisses he didn't bother pretending to be disgusted by. She patted him down; curiously he reached out to touch her face. Her cheeks were wet._

 _"Oh,_ kochanie1 _, I was so worried for you," she sobbed. "I was so afraid. Don't ever run off again. I could not stand to lose you. Either of you, my_ szlachetne dzieci2 _."_

It was during the flight to America on the charter plane acquisitioned by Dr. Selvig, ( _"Call me Eric, son."_ ) once he'd sufficiently calmed down and Wanda tearfully granted him the explanation he'd been seeking since awakening in the cave, that he'd come to a terrifying conclusion, the only plausible one for him to struggle to accept after he managed to comprehend the unbelievable stories Wanda was telling him. A conclusion that haunted him, plagued him with nightmares and infected his every move with a lingering doubt in the back of his mind: _he wasn't fast enough then, what if he's not fast enough now?_

 _He wasn't fast enough._

 _Not fast enough―_

Every choice he made hinged on his speed. What if one day it failed him yet again, except this time it was Wanda dying, Clint dying, Laura dying, God forbid Lila or Nathaniel or Cooper dying?

 _We find each other._

He startled. His flinching conveniently saved him from a blast aimed at his head, courtesy of the androids nearly breathing down his neck, jerking him to the side just in time for the concentrated energy to whistle by, singing his hair.

 _If we get lost, we'll find each other, just like we always do._

Whose words were those?

 _No need to worry, brother. We're in this life together, and nothing shall come between us._

Wanda, calling to him from his memory, not a projection of her reassurances to him in this crisis, but her teenage ghost floating to the forefront of his mind when he needed her most. There'd been a summer when they were fifteen when a French family intent on adopting visited their crowded orphanage; they'd initially selected Wanda singularly, uninterested on also taking in a rowdy hormonal teenage boy with broken teeth and cauliflower ears from countless fights. He'd been scared to death he would lose her. She'd found him huddled at their parents' grave after he snuck away to the cemetary to share his fear with the dead. Wanda had remained at his side instead of choosing a better life; it'd been a foolish act the matron berated her for, but he'd never loved her more than when she confessed she'd behaved horribly during the second interview to deter the couple before flat out refusing their offer. She'd been appalled that he thought accepting it had ever been an option.

He latched onto that love, using it to fuel him, wringing out every last drop of strength he could in order to harden his resolve. The past would not be repeated. He would not fail this time.

* * *

 _"WHAT!"_

To be fair, Rose and Dev had never mentioned befriending some crazy, refreshingly moralistic, ginger caffeine junkie in their spare time. Though they often neglected to mention such severely important details, this massive failure-to-relay-imperative-information surpassed their fickle habits of leaving him out of the loop. In making playful small talk, he'd dropped the bomb on coveted agency secrets; the matter of identity protection in the ranks was a serious issue, one he'd likely face a critical demotion for blundering if Hill didn't kill him first. Blake decided if events transpired in a way that his demise appeared inevitable, he'd latch onto the two idiots with the fury and might of an avenging angel and drag them down to hell with him.

Hopefully Crowley hadn't remodeled the place inbetween seasons seven and eight; he was so far behind thanks to work demanding to be taken home with him that it'd take a solid weekend marathon to catch up to the current hiatus.

Blake regarded Lian with a wariness he hadn't displayed even after he'd been enlightened as to her poor physical condition and damaged mental state. If she consorted with the likes of Lemeul and Parlay, there were no limits as to the juicy, filthy secrets she safeguarded or tricks lurking up her sleeve. There was definitely something hidden under those sleeves she always seemed to be wearing. She probably had a knife sheath strapped to her forearm under there, a gift from the scary Maximoff no doubt. And he wasn't talking about the male twin.

 _Then_ Lian bundled her hair in one fist and used the other hand to tug her hood up over head, releasing her hair so it draped forward to hide her features. He could hear panting behind the curtain and the cowl.

There was something about the way she hid beneath her hood―recognition sparked along his neural pathways, and he had to laugh at himself.

"Let me guess," drawled Blake, melting back into the relaxed posture he'd previously occupied before suspicion stiffened his spine. "You all met in college."

The girl removed one strand and peeked out through the gap.

"You were roommates, or as _you'd_ say _flatmates_ , in your final year of MIT with Devon Parlay, who attended Harvard University. Shortly after moving in, you tripped down the stairs and sustained a concussion. You tripped because you were lugging around Dev's dirty laundry, which prompted him to get off his lazy ass and wash his own clothes. Good job there. You met Rose through Dev, but after you'd spent a month ogling her fandom sweaters, which were actually her roommate's, across an Internet café, while also in college," continued Blake, resting his right ankle on his left knee. He smirked.

Lian gawked. "How do you―"

"Know that? As you well know, Dev's quite the talker, and he talked about you in particular way too much for a grown man. You would've thought we were high school girls. Gossip mongers. I know far more about you than I care to." Blake shuddered. Devon had passed his annual lie detector tests with flying colors, flawlessly denying any romantic feelings for his redheaded rent-buddy, but he still wasn't convinced the man didn't harbor _fluffy_ intentions.

"How would you know Devon?" Lian leaned forward.

Blake matched her, the space diminishing as each inched closer, as if he was about to whisper a secret in her ear. He hadn't noticed, too busy recounting old tales often repeated by his chatty acquaintances and deciding which ones to regale the girl with in order to prove their mutual friendships, but sometime during his speech she'd tucked her hair back behind her ears, revealing her face. Up close, he found himself briefly floundering for words, bewitched by the intense green of her fractured eyes.

 _Fractured eyes?_

He dragged himself out of the depths of those emerald pools, managing to regain a semblance of composure as he inhaled. "I met Devon in rookie camp; I doubt either one of us would have made it past initial recruitment if we didn't stick together. Your girl Rose, on the other hand, we first crossed paths in the break room at the Triskelion a few years back during one of her stints there working on some classified project with Dr. Lemeul." His tone turned thoughtful. "I haven't talked to her much since S.H.I.E.L.D. went under and or once they scrapped the organization back together. I wasn't expecting to even keep my job, but then they gave me a promotion, so I'm definitely not complaining."

Lian frowned. "Are you implying my two best friends work for S.H.I.E.L.D.?"

"I think the Lemeuls are 'officially' considered consultants, but in essence, yes," Blake replied, tilting his head. "Feel free to thank me for clueing you in on the Secret Lives of Two American Spies Who are Really British and Korean Immigrants Here Working for SHIELD with Fake Passports and Accents."

Instead of showering her praise and gratitude upon him like any well-mannered young woman, he watched Lian's eyes roll back in her head and her body slump into his arms as she fainted.

* * *

1 darling

2 precious babies

 **AN: Happy Thanksgiving! One more hour until it is officially Thanksgiving Day for me, actually though. Thanks so much to all of you who bother reading this, and special thanks to those who fav or follow or both! I love you all. Tell me what you like, what you don't, if you find any mistakes, in a kindly manner. You're all great though, so I doubt it would be in an unkind way. And, in the spirit of Thanksgiving, if you happen to be reviewing, you might include something you're thankful for, such as turkey or hot showers or life in general. Or not. Whatever you feel like. Also, I am considering making a tumblr for this fic, where I could post snippets about the characters, excerpts, plotlines kicked to the curb, anything that applies. Any thoughts?**


	12. Part I: Chapter Eleven

**WARNING:** mention/discussion of death, shock

 **Chapter Eleven**

* * *

Staggering out of the pod, Pietro gulped for fresh air. Yanking the zipper down, he tore off the sim suit. It tangled around his legs, tripping him. He crashed to the ground.

He stayed there, lacking the will to get up. He lacked the will to do anything besides lay on the cool floor outside of the chamber, staring through blurry eyes at the base of his locker.

"Maximoff."

If he'd had the energy, he might have been tempted to kill Rhodes―or hug him. It was probably best he remained where he was.

"Get up, Maximoff."

Pietro snorted, then sneezed. Rhodes' footsteps had stirred the thin layer of dust, and his allergies were reacting. He wanted to laugh, but his chest inexplicably hurt. He'd been promised his 'enhancements' would have eradicated common allergies to dust and pollen, but it looked like that had been another lie.

A hand descended on his back. It was warm, unlike the cold seeping into his bones. He let it get a grip on the back of the thin sweat-soaked t-shirt he wore and haul him up, but other than that he did little to help the owner of the appendage.

 _Just leave me on the floor,_ he thought, but whoever was bothering to drag him off apparently wasn't a mind reader.

Eventually he was deposited on a bench and leaned against the wall behind it. At some point the rest of the simulation suit had been removed from around his ankles, and he felt exposed and vulnerable, which was weird, as he wasn't usually self-conscious.

Rolling his head to the side, he noticed a stack of clothes sitting next to him. After methodically peeling off his soiled ones, he put the fresh garments on one article at a time, slower than he'd done anything since gaining his speed. There was a granola bar and a bottle of water too, which he consumed with the same lethargy. Eating proved to be a mistake; within minutes he was hunched over a wastebasket conveniently placed nearby, vomiting the contents of his stomach.

"That happened to me my first time in the Box, too."

Pietro opened his eyes. He was lying on the bench again, this time stretched across it, head tilted towards the edge with the bin positioned beneath it. "Rogers," he croaked, "don't you have some cadets to beat into shape somewhere?"

"Romanoff's got it covered," replied Rogers dismissively.

Pietro couldn't stand seeing the pity in the older man's eyes, so he shut his own and turned his face. "Go 'way," he mumbled, feeling childish. He didn't care if he was whining; the simulation had left drained. Physically, it wasn't a problem: his enhanced metabolism replenished his spent energy, which was why he'd eaten before agreeing to train with Rhodes. Mentally and emotionally, however, was a different story.

"No matter how fast you are, son, this is something you can't run from."

The Captain placed a hand on his head, almost affectionately, and Pietro realized from the touch it had been Rogers, not Rhodes, who had dragged him off the floor and provided him with food and clothing.

The gesture of care terrified him, so he responded in the only way he knew how.

"What? Old men lecturing me?"

The super soldier sighed. "It's a hard lesson to learn, even harder to accept. They say that experience is the hardest kind of teacher because it gives you the test first, and the lesson afterward. I don't want that to be the case with you. None of us do, but we know it's inevitable, and we try to prepare you. That's all that was. To prepare you."

"Prepare me?" scoffed Pietro, pushing _himself_ up. "That wasn't to prepare me. That was to see how I'd react, if I'd go crazy. You bastards tortured me to test my mental state."

The man's whole face softened. Rogers offered a weak smile, in spite of the accusations Pietro threw at him. "Your sister said you were strong."

Pietro's mouth suddenly felt as if it was fillled with sand.

"She told me you wouldn't accept an excuse about preparing you for the worst-case scenario, and she was right. You want to the truth, Pietro? Okay, here it is: those simulations were to test your mental state. Right now that footage and all the data recorded by those machines and needles stuck in you is being dissected. Fury ordered it. We all have to do it, again and again. It was a _test_. One that, in my book, you passed, for the most part. There were some fatal mistakes, but that's what we'll train you for. It was my idea to try to pass it off as a good learning experience, because I _know_. You don't want to be anyone's puppet. Anyone's lab rat under a microscope. Neither do I," explained Rogers.

Pietro laughed, a mirthless rasp. "Look at me, Captain. Do I look like someone who passed your test?"

"Steve."

"What?"

"Call me Steve. It's my name. You're part of the team, Pietro. You fought and died with us. You can call me Steve."

"Steve? What's your middle name? Rob? John?" he teased.

Steve rolled his eyes and deadpanned, "Grant."

"Django." Steve's eyebrows shot up his forehead. "It was my father's name. I am surprised you have not read it in my file."

Steve frowned. "I don't dig through my partners' files. I read what's important, and if it's some scary background, then I'd rather whoever it is be able to tell me about it themselves, if that person feels it's necessary. So, no, I haven't read your file. I don't need to. Looking at you right now, I know you're a good guy. I'd say yeah, you passed the test. I'd rather have a guy bawling than one who feels nothing at all." As an after thought, he added, "Have you read my file?"

Pietro ducked his head. "No. I couldn't concentrate long enough. Wanda usually tells me the basics. Besides, who does not know Captain America?" His stomach clenched. He extended a hand, warding Steve off. "You may want to stay back." He inclined his head towards the bin, which was a bad idea, because his stomach once more decided to empty its insides.

"I bet they have something for that," muttered the super soldier, rising and moving to leave.

"Not up to speed on modern medicine, eh?" chuckled Pietro.

Grumbling, the team leader consulted a bank of lockers nearby, alternating between pacing and banging on one of them.

"Medicine is in there?" questioned the speedster. He peered at the row of rectangular storage units. Spotting his name labeled on one them, he realized he hadn't been dragged far at all, just to a changing bench a few feet away. Funny. It had seemed longer.

The good captain was beating on a narrow unit belonging to Sam Wilson. Pietro noted that the units were more than mere lockers; they varied in size, probably according to owner preference. Pietro's own appeared to be a standard model until you looked inside and had to wonder just how big Stark's bank account was and how minuscule his sense of modesty. Currently hanging ajar, it revealed two shelves, two hooks, a mini fridge, a mirror, and a touch screen installed in its door. They must have been coded to only open for their owner as well because Steve's barrage proved useless.

Finally Steve admitted defeat. "Sam usually has nausea pills," he explained, arms swinging loosely down by his sides. "Fury has the trainees in there a lot. He'd have Tony too if not for the threats to dismantle the entire system."

"That means . . . I'll have to go back in there." Pietro prayed Steve would correct him.

The downward slanting of Steve's mouth crushed his hopes. "Yeah, looks like it, son," he confirmed. He added, "It's never as bad as the first time, though. It won't even be as immersive without Wanda's extra juice powering the generator."

Pietro could feel each beat of his heart in his chest. His eyes narrowed, and his tone was lined with steel. "Wanda . . . was _in_ on this?"

"At least if she was behind it, it was someone who cared about you and wouldn't go too far," said Steve, cautiously stepping away from Sam's locker. Pietro wedged a leg under him and managed to use the bench to lever himself to his feet, bracing his hand on the wall for balance as the world tilted. Once the wave of dizziness subsided, Pietro tested his speed in a light jog. He made it a few steps before he fizzled out and crashed to the floor, panting.

"Running may not be a good idea right now," advised Steve.

Pietro glared at him. "Yeah, I figured that out for myself, thanks." He groaned, accepting help in climbing back up. "I need food." Hunger panged in his belly. "A _lot_ of food."

Steve, after having to right him for the third time, draped Pietro's arm across his shoulders and proceeded to hobble them away at painfully slow pace. "The cafeteria's probably closed by now. The break room is the best bet. You don't look like you could make it to the lounge."

"Hurry, I'm fading."

"You're not _dying,_ Pietro."

"If I do, I'll just _walk it off_ right?"

"I see Wanda is the nicer twin."

Pietro huffed. "Wait till a holiday rolls around. Then she's a terror."

"You should've seen the fuss she made over Labor Day. Threw this big party at the Bartons'. I don't think Clint's grill had ever seen that much use before. Hey―you're not even moving your feet! I'm practically carrying you!" Steve rambled. Pietro's feet were indeed dragging along the ground. Since he wasn't bothering to move his legs, he was basically dead weight.

 _Dead_ weight. Haha. _I really should do something about this morbid sense of humor,_ thought Pietro. _Or maybe I'm simply delirious._

"I'd go with delirious. Just don't talk anymore―and yes, you did say that out loud."

* * *

After Pietro had consumed some meds to keep the food down and literally everything edible they could scrounge up from the break room, Steve donned a leather jacket and left. Though, being Steve, he apologized for his swift departure, claiming that he and Sam had caught a lead on their 'missing person case' but, regardless if it panned out or not, he would return in two days to check up on the team, which now included Pietro. He also suggested finding Rhodes, who apparently felt awful for initiating the training session, as he'd been unaware Fury planned on the impromptu mental examination.

Rhodes had witnessed his lapse of dignity, however, when he'd laid on the floor and refused to get up. Pietro may wait before approaching the man.

Wanda, on the other hand . . . They needed to chat now about her involvement. Perhaps a discussion of her distressing ability to manipulate scenarios in such horrific ways was in order too.

With his speed restored, it took him about two minutes to find her. He kept getting lost in the massive atrium, which appeared more and more like a huge deposit site for equipment they hadn't quite sorted out yet. He found her in an office three doors down from one labelled _CARTER_ , surrounded by towering stacks of cardboard boxes on all sides. Files littered her desk, occupying every square inch of space except that which her fancy tech occupied.

She was perusing a portfolio of drawings, cheeks stained suspiciously red, as he skidded in through the open door, sending papers fluttering.

"Pietro! No running in my office!" she scolded, eyes glittering.

He rolled his eyes and plucked a rough sketch out of the folder. "What's this?"

She attempted to snatch it back, but he evaded her easily. "That's work! Give it back before you rip it!"

For a rough sketch with dark, crude lines and evident mistakes not erased all the way, it was good. Better than either of them could have produced, if he had to admit it. Pietro could imagine what a cleaned up version would like; the artist's talent shone through even in the early stages.

It was clearly more than 'work' though.

The artist had captured his sister in a way few managed: pure, open, and relaxed. The hardness to her features caused by grief wasn't ignored, but the softness to her eyes when she was happy wasn't neglected either. The drawing depicted her with her back leaning against a tree trunk, a picnic spread before her. Her eyes squinted half-shut as she laughed, and it almost excused the lines around them. A jacket was crumpled at her side, and her hands rested in her lap. Overall she just looked _peaceful._

What concerned him was the fact that in tiny script next to the date was the name of the artist. _Vision._

"The Vision has been drawing you?" asked Pietro.

She blushed. "I've been helping him adapt to normal life. Try things. He knows everything, but he's never actually _done_ anything. We tried out art to see if it was something he'd enjoy. I didn't expect him to draw me."

Well, this meeting had taken an unexpected turn. He'd come here to chew her out, but now . . . He didn't know whether to be defensive or protective.

Wanda gently removed the sketch from his hands and tucked it away. Then she crossed around her desk, absentmindedly smoothing out creases in her shirt. "What did you need, brother?" she inquired, fiddling with the charms and bangles encircling her wrists.

He cleared his throat, though it didn't make the words come out any easier. "I passed a test."

"You passed? That's good."

She wouldn't meet his eyes.

"The test . . . I wasn't prepared for it. I nearly . . . didn't pass." He coughed, trying to dislodge the lump steadily growing in his throat. "I was told you knew I'd be taking one."

"I . . . yes, that is correct."

"You . . . helped _design_ it," he ventured.

She sighed. "I did."

He felt his heart breaking. _"Why?"_

"I did it because death is not something you can control. Even you cannot run from it. You needed to see that, and I believed them when they said this was the only way we could show you," replied Wanda, finally lifting shiny eyes to meet his beseeching gaze.

Anger swelled in his chest. "I _died._ You don't think I understand death?" His fists clenched at his sides.

Wanda shook her head, frustratedly wiping at her eyes. "I think _because_ you died and now you're alive that you don't understand. Deep inside you think if you can just get faster you can beat it next time. You can save everyone. That is going to be what kills you, brother. Not bullets, not fire, not a bomb sitting in the rubble mere feet from your face. If it takes twenty horrible simulations to make you realize and accept that, then I will help them again, as much as I hate seeing you in pain."

Numbness coated his insides, settling like a blanket over him, as if his mind was trying to protect him from the wave of pain threatening to ripple over him. How had she known? A stupid question. How had she known before he had? Another pondering to which he already knew the answer. His twin knew him better than he knew himself. Of course she would know his deepest, darkest secrets.

He opened his mouth, to say what he had no idea, but she beat him to it. She pushed past him toward the door, muttering, "I'm running late for an event, so if you'd excuse me."

* * *

He wasn't hungry anymore, but the ache in his bones remained, the siren song calling him back to his bed. Preferably the bed in the loft of the Bartons' barn; the one in his room here at the facility boasted a "memory foam" material that rolled around with him and offered no support. Thankfully he usually required little sleep; stuffing his face compensated enough.

Still, the thought of just collapsing onto a comfortable surface and taking a nap _sounded_ nice.

He glanced around the atrium, wondering about the probability of him being able to successfully sneak away without being spotted or called back in five minutes with Stark snickering in his ear or Clint anticipating his escape and setting traps accordingly. Deciding the endeavor was worth a shot, he turned a corner, intending to make for the exit, only to catch sight of Wanda crumpled on the floor with Clint grasping her shoulders. Pietro saw the archer's lips moving, though at this distance couldn't hear the words leaving his mouth. Instinctively he knew that Wanda wasn't hearing Clint any more than Pietro was.

Pietro was instantly at her side, shoulder to shoulder with Clint, rubbing her arm as if he could force feeling back into it, into her.

"Wanda," he called, "Wanda, what's happening? What's happened?" He turned to Clint, teeth gritted as he bit out, _"What happened to her?"_

The older man shook his head; despite being a seasoned warrior, the archer failed to maintain his composure, clenching and unclenching his hands as if he itched to nock an arrow and fire at whatever had driven the girl to a limp, lifeless mess. Pietro personally wanted to find the source of this reaction, chain weights to their ankles, and toss them into the middle of the ocean, after disembowelment and other cruel and unusual punishments. He hoped it was the Vision.

Clint raked a hand through his sandy hair, concern pooling in his eyes, threatening to well over. "Kid, I don't know. I was on my way over to invite her for dinner next week and I saw she got a call on her comm., and by the time I caught up to her, the call ended and I managed to catch her as she dropped. She just lost all function and fell like a stone. She was mumbling at first, eyes tearing, but then she clammed up. Did your mental thingy not go out?"

Shaking his head, Pietro leaned closer to inspect her eyes for the tell-tale glow. Her lids half-closed, he angled his head to peek under―a bright crimson flare shadowed the hollows beneath her eyes. Otherwise, the sublevel's lighting rendered the red glare almost invisible.

He sank back on his heels, coaching himself through labored breaths. The scarlet reassured this was not a health problem; her body collapsed as her mind responded to whatever stimulus triggered an automatic mind meld during that call. The fact that his sister merely fell to the floor calmly, rather than thrashing and possibly flatlining, indicated that despite the unexpected factor, she was in control. Why wouldn't she be? Who else had powers like her? Wanda Maximoff was the big shot around here, Pietro admitted to his chagrin.

"She's okay," he breathed. At Clint's incredulous gawking, he amended, "For now."

Clint scoffed. "That's reassuring." Yet he too rested on his haunches, fingers twitching where he dropped his hands onto his thighs. The archer's eyes flickered between the twins, his furrowed brow digging a deep groove. While Clint periodically checked her pulse, Pietro remained vigilant regarding the telltale scarlet glow. If that glow disappeared and she didn't awake or regulate into sleep, that could only mean Wanda was trapped, or dying, or both. Things Pietro wasn't prepared to accept or handle, and he had no idea how to treat symptoms either.

"Shouldn't we move her?" Clint questioned, brushing dust particles off the sweater draped around her shoulders.

Pietro shook his head. "Best to leave her where she is. It's too much of a risk that jostling her could interfere or disrupt whatever she's doing up there." He made a vague gesture toward his temple.

Clint shifted, shaking his head. "You two are going to be the death of me," he vowed. "Laura is going to have to inscribe 'died of stress thanks to twin superheros' on my tombstone. They charge by the letter, you know."

"I thought that was engagement rings," frowned Pietro.

A shrug in response was followed by, "All I know is S.H.I.E.L.D. has had to compensate Laura about five times for the cost of tombstones whenever people have to believe I'm dead."

Pietro couldn't help guffawing at the nonchalance of the statement. "And how many times have people had to believe you were dead, old man?"

Clint winked. "Let's just say I didn't always ride around with the big guys. I've gotten some dirty assignments over the years; they didn't all end well. Not to mention the numerous times rogues have tried to mark my name off their list. Thankfully S.H.I.E.L.D.'s confidentiality contracts are airtight and a pain in the ass. Literally. You break it, you're stuck in solitary confinement in maximum security for the rest of your life."

He winced. "That does not sound funny."

"Did I ever tell you about―"

Wanda jolted, eyes flashing open as she jerked upright. She clutched at her heaving chest. Her fingers scrabbled, tugging down the collar of her blouse to claw at the skin guarding her heart. Despite his every instinct screaming at him, Pietro was frozen―in shock, horror, or awe he couldn't tell. Her nails had just punctured her flesh, hypnotic beads of blood welling to the surface and dribbling out from the five crescent-shaped cuts. Clint moved, saving his twin's life. The archer seized both of her arms, dragging them behind her back and pinning one between her shoulder blades. The restraint of her arms only partially fixed the problem; her legs were free, and she kicked and thrashed and ripped this way and that, entirely oblivious to her surroundings or situation, her mind locked away but her body responding to whatever battle she fought on that plain.

"Pietro!" Clint barked, snapping him out of his daze. Obediently he reached out and grabbed the free appendages, securing his hold before nodding at the older man.

"We need to move her now," ordered Clint. "Interfering with whatever she's doing up there doesn't matter anymore," he added.

Pietro didn't need the explanation, already hoisting his end of his flailing sister up and casting around for a safe place to deposit her. Clint didn't need to search for a place, obviously having one previously in mind, and Pietro followed his lead, signalling the archer to take charge with a tilt of the head. They marched halfway across the atrium with their cargo toward an open space lounge-like area that was equipped with a kitchenette. Metal and glass walls separated it from the nearby "Blood Lab" around the corner. Once they'd found duct tape and dropped her into a chair away from any other furniture, they strapped her to it; Pietro relieved her of the blade she'd taken to concealing in her boot, earning furrowed eyebrows from the archer.

"Since when has she . . . ?" he trailed off, gesturing to the knife Pietro was replacing in his own sock, the bulge hidden by his sweatpants.

Pietro shrugged. "I figured _you_ knew," he replied.

Clint shook his head, checking Wanda's makeshift homemade bonds. "These will do for now until I can find some handcuffs. I don't think the Magnetic Cuffs will be necessary. _By the way,_ why didn't we just take her up to the infirmary in the first place? I don't think coffee dregs and," he paused and inspected a stack of papers left by the copy machine in the corner, " _What Not to Do When Confronted By an Explosive Device_ procedural pamphlets are going to be of much help if she starts seizing!"

"I . . . " Pietro paused, circling her as he criticized her current condition. "I don't think so."

Clint's eyes hardened, a steely resolve forged out of his affection for the twins. "You can't just pretend she's fine. We need to get her medical professionals."

"No," bit Pietro, folding his arms and sliding protectively in front of his sister. The bottom of his stomach dropped out as he watched the hurt register on Clint's face, the man momentarily hunching over as if he had been dealt a physical blow. Pietro remained firm in his diagnosis, meeting the archer's furious gaze levelly with a brutal coldness he only adopted when it concerned the welfare of his sister.

"This isn't the streets of Sokovia in your childhood, Pietro!" barked Clint. "We don't have time for you to play 'Over-protective Older Brother' here or for your alpha male attitude. The thing you need to protect Wanda from right now is yourself."

Pietro didn't even remember moving, only that the next thing he knew he had Clint slammed against the opposite wall, one hand around his throat that threatened to phase right through the archer's throat.

* * *

 **Merry Christmas Eve! Enjoy your new chapter present―don't you just love cliffhangers on Christmas? Man, I wish this had been a Christmas chapter. Ah, well. As always, thank you to everyone who favorites, follows, reviews, and reads! I hope all of you have wonderful holidays if you celebrate this time of year. Merry Christmas!**


	13. Part I: Chapter Twelve

**WARNING:** death hallucinations

 **Chapter Twelve**

* * *

 _Do it._

 _Kill him._

 _He's standing in the way._

 _He's always going to be in the way._

 _He's taken your place, but he can't be you._

 _He's going to hurt Wanda, intentional or not._

 _She says you aren't invincible, that you can't save everyone. Prove her wrong. Show her you can―save them all before they're even hurt. Prevent yourself from being hurt._

 _He killed you once. He'll do it again._

 _Do it, you coward!_

 _KILL HIM_

 _And Pietro did, removing his vibrating hand from the archer's throat only to shove it into his chest and crush his heart._

Crude, but effective.

Simple, yet brutal.

The deed was done in a tenth of a second, but death took an eternity to settle in, to rob the man of vitality and suck him dry of life. His body stained the wall behind him with a streak of blood as it toppled to the floor. Pietro regulated his breathing, utilizing a trick taught to him by the man he had just slaughtered. Clint Barton's glazed eyes gazed unseeing up at him, widened by horror. Barton hadn't even had a chance to be afraid, though knowing what Pietro did of the man, he doubted that the circus boy who charged into battle with gods and heroes armed only with an archaic weapon would fear death.

 _Fear death._

 _Fear death._

 _Death? What―what have I done?_

His hand was still vibrating, buzzing in and out of vision, sometimes solidifying before phasing back into the flesh-colored blur, emitting a low whine, like the droning of bumble-bees. Panic wrapping him tightly in her vice-like embrace, he shook his hand, flapping it in the air in a desperate attempt that the motion would interfere with the phenomenon. It didn't work, only serving to spike pain up his forearm. He couldn't stop it. He couldn't control it.

When their _enhancements_ surfaced, before they mastered total control, Pietro's situation was still better than Wanda's. He, at least, was in no danger of hurting anyone unless he accidentally ran into them. He'd learned to harness his speed and let it flow through him like a current until he owned it. It eventually became so ingrained in him, such a fundamental part of his being, that he couldn't remember life without it. Control had never been beyond his grasp, but it slipped past his reach now, more elusive with each passing second.

Elusive, like his soul when he killed Clint.

 _He_ killed Clint.

He _killed_ Clint.

He killed _Clint._

A scream split his head in half until all other noise vanished except his own pained cry ringing in his ears.

* * *

"This isn't right," said Clint hoarsely, rubbing his throat.

Wanda's attention flickered to him from her brother where he curled against the wall, her glassy eyes devoid of emotion. Pietro's expression had been frozen in revulsion, trained on the hands resting limply in his lap. His lips still moved and fat tears rolled down his cheeks, but Wanda had robbed the speedster of his voice when she entrapped him in a fear vision.

Despite all Clint had seen and done, fear like he'd never known struck his heart when Wanda threw a disgusted look at Pietro and turned her back on the quivering mess to which she'd reduced him.

"This is the only way I know how to incapacitate him," she justified. "It's not safe for him to be around other people like this. It's better to keep him locked up in his own head, no matter what he sees. If he hates me, so be it. I'm the one who brought him back from the dead, so I'm the one who has to deal with the consequences."

Clint gawked.

"What?" demanded Wanda. "He―he was _barbaric_! You would be dead if I hadn't intervened. Clint, he would have killed you! You saw his eyes―those were the eyes of a man not in his right mind, who would have seen you as a threat and dealt with you accordingly."

Clint shook his head. "No, I know that. God, I know that. But what do you mean by _consequences_? Tell me there's not some terrible price to pay for what you did," he implored.

Wanda ignored him, the urgency in his tone dismissed as if he'd been fretting over which black t-shirt looked better on him. She strode out of the room and down the halls, navigating towards the fortified elevator. She didn't falter or pause for rest, despite the state she'd been in not ten minutes prior. Clint jogged after her, his longer strides allowing him to easily catch up with her despite her hasty pace.

"Where are you going?" he inquired, peering at her face, icy cold though it was in the wake of brother and sister committing unspeakable acts. In spite of the facade she'd erected, concern leaked through her eyes until they were brimming with unshed tears. He dragged her to a stop as the first tear spilled over like a raindrop.

Swiping under her eyes irritably, Wanda fixed him with a glare. The tears slipping down her cheeks undermined its intensity.

Clint wiped away one she missed and adopted the fatherly voice he brought out when Lila scraped her knee. "What happened when you blacked out?" he asked gently.

She averted her eyes. "I was caught off guard," she mumbled.

"How?" he persisted. "Did it hurt you?"

She shuddered. "Not me. Lian. Something happened to her and she's relapsed, but she's worse―far worse. I . . . I reached out to her after I got Tony's call. Reached out to her mind, I mean. What I felt . . . It was so horrible, so dark and terrifying, that it sucked me in, trapped me with her, but I wasn't actually _with_ her because her prison isolates her and torments her, each second lasting an age and each minute an eon. It preyed on every weak chink in this armor that I watched her try to construct. After she managed to make a skeleton of it to protect herself, I was able to get out and wake up, but Lian is still in there."

Clint frowned. Lian . . . He was sure Wanda had mentioned her before. Then it clicked. "Lian, the coma patient?"

"She's my friend," Wanda muttered brokenly.

"Then let's go to the hospital and see your friend. See how she's doing," he suggested, trying to coax Wanda out of her bitter apathy that had settled in once her whimpers ceased and tears dried. It was as if the sudden flood of emotion had left her reserves depleted and her incapable of mustering up a response of much more than tired groans.

"It doesn't matter how she's doing on the outside," snapped Wanda.

There it was. That fire. The spirit responsible for the immense power she wielded, that enabled her to resurrect her brother and rip out Ultron's heart. The spirit that would fuel her and keep her alive even when all was lost.

"Why?" goaded Clint.

"Because that _demon_ is still torturing her! She could be completely healthy but be dead inside after a round with that monster! And she will be. It's angry this time. It won't let go again," she shouted, hurling the words at him, spit flying from her mouth with her outrage at being forced to detail her friend's agony.

Clint extended a hand, just as he had months ago when he first invited her to his home, when he had kindled hope for a future without pain in both of them. "The _demon_ hasn't tangoed with you yet. This is a world of monsters and magic now. I'm a guy who runs around fighting robots with a bow and arrow. It isn't my world anymore. It's yours. And _I_ believe that you're stronger than you think you are. I believe you can save your friend. You've saved my ass more than I like to admit, and you've saved your brother more times than he can probably count, though I'm sure his counting capabilities are more impressive than you'd think looking at him."

The corners of her lips twitched up. It wasn't her brightest grin, but it was enough for now. "Okay," she said. She said it again, this time gaining confidence. "Okay. Okay, let's go see Lian. I'm going to save her."

* * *

"I'm sorry, ma'am, but I'm afraid you aren't allowed in the operating room while a procedure is underway. The doctors are doing the best they can," one of the nurses told her in an attempt at pacifying her. Wanda gritted her teeth. Every minute she wasted arguing was another minute that Lian was at the mercy of the demon, and from the little Wanda had been privy to, the demon was not merciful.

"It will be a miracle if they manage to stabilize her, let alone get around to 'helping' her," Blake Westerly muttered darkly, discarding the chart he'd been flipping through with shaking hands. "It was like every injury she ever sustained opened up again and some appeared that they have no idea the origins of. It was like the Hulk smashed her, Tony Stark blasted her, Thor hammered her, Captain America got her with his shield for good measure and THEN your brother ran over her."

"That does not make sense," muttered Wanda, digging the pads of her fingers into her temples.

" _None of this_ makes sense," argued Blake, throwing his hands up before slumping defeatedly. "And now Lian is the one who suffers because she got dragged into this messed up world."

Wanda continued talking to herself as Blake waxed on. She pondered over Lian's condition, the phenomenon of a monster invading her mind from unknown distances and feasting on her psyche there, and on the concept of the torture waged upon her mind manifesting on her body. She shivered. She had never touched magic like that preying on her friend. There was a familiar component to it though, a taste distinguishable and separate from the demon. It lurked in the background, nearly hidden beneath the layers and layers of the other magic. She had sensed it thrumming almost impatiently, threatening to burst from the base of Lian's mind where the girl had constructed mental walls upon walls in a bid to secure the last uncorrupted shred of her sanity and humanity.

But it wasn't uncorrupted―it had been _purified_.

Purified. She'd heard that before.

Wanda snatched the chart documenting Lian's condition. Skimming through it, her heart dropped out of her chest like a stone and plummeted to her feet at the confirmation of her fear. She would never wish it upon anyone, but this might be Lian's only hope.

"What is it?" Blake's eyes narrowed, sensing she had discovered a critical revelation.

Wanda drew a deep breath. "It's the Scepter. Loki's Scepter. That's why her body is shutting down. I'd recognize that power anywhere."

Blake cursed. "How the hell is that possible? I thought the Scepter's magic stone was in the Vision's head," he demanded.

"She must have been exposed prior to the Avengers' recapture of it," she reasoned. "Although that doesn't make any sense. The Scepter was in HYDRA's hands for that duration and Lian was here in a coma."

"Unless she wasn't here."

They locked eyes. A knife couldn't saw through the tension hanging in the air. A bullet couldn't puncture the layer of fear descending upon their hearts.

Blake ran his hand through his hair so aggressively Wanda was surprised he didn't yank any out. Then, in the middle of tugging on some of the longer strands, he froze. His head snapped up, eyes widening. "Her file―it's restricted. Her complete file, anyway. I'd know, I tried to read it."

Wanda clenched her fists. "What are you saying?"

"I'm saying . . . SHIELD is lying. Or keeping secrets. Either one. Lian _must have been_ in HYDRA's hands at some point before the Ultron fiasco. If you're right and it really is the Scetper―" Blake theorized. His face blanched and he had to clear his throat before continuing. "You and your brother were the only ones to survive."

"I know."

* * *

"Kid, get up."

Pietro lifted his head. The delusion his sister trapped him in had faded ten minutes ago but not before he systematically killed all of his new teammates and everyone he had ever loved. He murdered them himself or claimed responsibility for their deaths. An unending cycle. He'd remained on the floor in the same position he'd woken up in, too scared that it hadn't been a dream. Terrified that it had been real.

His brain had dealt with too many false realities today. He couldn't distinguish between them any longer.

Clint Barton stood over him, dressed in the same clothes he'd died in.

"Another ghost come to visit me, yes?" croaked Pietro.

The archer frowned and crouched at his side. Pietro flinched away as a penlight was shone in both his eyes. Leaning back, Clint kneaded his temples, a mixture of resentment and sympathy battling for dominance in his eyes.

"She really worked you over, didn't she? God, do I know what that feels like," muttered the man whose heart he'd crushed. Sympathy must have won, for with a sigh Clint climbed to his feet and then dragged him to his own. Once they were eye to eye, Pietro still staring intently at the ghost of his old friend, Clint pinned him with a harsh look. "I don't know what's going on with you. Wanda won't tell me. So I won't hold a grudge for you trying to kill me, if only because you're so jacked up. But if you ever want to see my kids again, or come home, you better pull yourself together."

The speech made sense, even sounded like something Clint would say in real life, except for one error he couldn't ignore.

"But I did kill you."

Clint gaped, incredulous. "I'm right here in front of you, kid."

"You're here, but you're not real."

He appeared to struggle with his response. Eventually he simply said, "Fine, I'm dead. Let's get you to your sister, so she can fix you. Apparently there's something you should see that has to do with the coma girl."

"I killed her too."

"The coma girl is still alive, thought not for much longer. That's not your fault," denied Clint, dragging him in the general direction of the elevator.

"No, not Lian. Wanda. I didn't get around to killing Lian. I just ripped out her tongue because she talked too much. Then I was sad about it, but I don't know why. I've pictured it enough times that doing it should have made me happy."

They boarded after inputting all manner of codes and undergoing several different scans. The elevator began to ascend, the floor numbers ticking upward until they reached a familiar one Pietro recognized as the level for the medical wing.

"Please stop telling me about your murderous fantasies. I'd like to be able to sleep tonight," said Clint as they disembarked.

"But you can't sleep without Laura," protested Pietro, the words flowing out of his mouth before he could correct that she was dead as well.

"Well, whenever I'm with her again," Clint amended, leading them through the bustle of activity to a waiting room for surgeries. His sister perched on the edge of a chair next to a blond-haired guy who clutched a tablet.

Wanda looked up at the noise of their footsteps, eyes widening when they fell upon him. She leapt out of her seat and rushed toward him, cradling his face. Her hands were warm, contrary to what he had expected from a walking corpse. He supposed the stories of hellfire and brimstone must be true and the heat of hell had travelled to the surface with her.

"Hello," said Pietro, smiling at her. It was good to see her one last time, even if she wasn't real. When she only gazed back sorrowfully, not returning his greeting, he concluded that she may not recognize him. "It's me," he added.

Over her shoulder, the blond guy groaned and attempted to smother himself.

"I'm sorry, brother," said Wanda, blinking away tears. "Don't worry, I'll take care of you. I'll fix you."

"Technically I'm the older one. I should take care of you," joked Pietro. His face grew hot, and he felt her prodding at his mind. As if a physical blindfold had been removed from his eyes and a weight from his shoulders, the morose fog blanketing him dissipated. Sharp clarity pierced him.

He hadn't killed or hurt anyone. It was a vision. A bad dream. Everything was okay.

Wanda was still crying, so he drew her to his chest and stroked her hair. "Everything is okay," he told her.

"No, it's not," she sobbed. "It's Lian."

He froze. _Could that have been―_ "Is this about her tongue?"

"Her tongue? What are you talking about? She's dying. It's the scepter. The experiments all over again," Wanda sniffled.

"Oh . . . forget the tongue then. How is it the experiments all over again? Why is she dying? I thought they finished poking her with needles."

Wanda often expressed her hopes that the scientists here would uncover the mysteries of Lian's coma. She'd been telling him over dinner the night before that a breakthrough had been reported. She'd baked in celebration of her friend's new freedom from the needles and bloodwork, something Pietro enjoyed more for the sugary treats rather than happiness for Lian.

"Short story: she's relapsed," explained the blond, not removing his focus from the tablet his fingers danced across. "Long story: we were just talking while she took a break from dealing with an overly enthusiastic geneticist and I mentioned some mutual pals we had that she wasn't aware worked for SHIELD. She was understandably upset. She fainted, woke up, heard my Star Wars ringtone, and passed out again. Her eyes were glowing. Now her body is basically giving out and Wanda says her mind is on the same track. I'd say that pretty much equals dying, don't you?"

The elaboration did little to alleviate Pietro's confusion. He tentatively pieced together, "So Lian is dying because of your ringtone?"

The blond shrugged while Wanda groaned and buried her head in her hands.

He looked to Clint for a different interpretation of the described events, but the man was studiously avoiding his gaze.

"What does Lian dying have to do with the Scepter? Or the experiments?" he pursued.

Wanda lifted her head, twisting her fingers in her skirt. She stared off into nothing, eyes fixed blankly on the far wall but seeing something else. "I felt it, Pietro," she whispered. He shivered at her haunted tone, and he heard in her voice what he knew resounded in his when he spoke of simulations and fear visions. "I would never be able to mistake the power of the Scepter. I didn't realize it at first; it was buried deep beneath the torture inflicted on the poor woman's mind, but it was there. It surrounds her now. It rebuilds her, as it rebuilt us."

'Rebuilt' was putting it nicely. Pietro shuddered, phantom pain racking his body as he recalled the agony of those days spent in that tiny cell where it felt as if his bones broke and mended themselves a hundred times.

Clint interrupted now, "I thought the Scepter theory was just that: a theory."

Wanda shook her head vigorously. "Blake is working on hacking into her file now to prove she was in HYDRA's hands."

The blond―Blake―smirked. "Someone already paved the way for me. I found this tablet with Lian's stuff. Apparently she's been busy picking apart the firewall. I took her shortcut inside and cut the time in half, so decrypting her actual file shouldn't take much longer. I'd love to find out what she's been working on after all this is over. I have the utmost respect for master coders, and your girl is one of the best I've seen," he bragged.

Hawkeye groaned. "Just what we need, another Tony Stark on our hands."

"That's assuming she'll live," exclaimed Wanda, flinging up her hands. "I don't care what she's been hacking. We need to find out how long HYDRA kept her prisoner. I don't believe for a second that she's been with SHIELD the whole time. It's not possible."

Pietro frowned, interjecting, "How you do know they kept her prisoner? What if she volunteered, like us?"

Before anyone could explain to him what was clearly obvious to everyone else, a nurse poked her head into the room. She consulted the clipboard in her hands, squinted eyes scrutinizing them. "Are any of you here for Liana McKinnis?"

Wanda cleared her throat. Pietro reached out to steady her shoulder; she glanced up at him, surprise skittering across her features as if she hadn't registered her whole frame trembling. Her lips parted, but no sound emerged. She reached back to clutch his hand.

"Is she out of surgery yet?" asked Pietro. He squeezed his sister's hand.

The nurse visibly deflated like a balloon. She leaned one sagging shoulder against the doorframe to keep herself standing. "They managed to temporarily stabilize her," she confirmed. "She's awake right now while they brief her. You'll have a few minutes to visit before they sedate her again. The next hour or so is to give her a break to try to regulate before prepping for another operation. I can let you back two at a time."

"Wanda, you go," Blake urged. "See if there's anything you can do for her. I can't leave this without triggering the failsafe she built in." He gestured to the tablet to which he immediately returned his attention.

As he removed it from around her shoulder, Wanda seized Pietro's arm. "Come with me," she implored. "So we can see for ourselves. It'll be easier if both of us can confirm it's the Scepter."

 _I don't_ want _to do this alone,_ spoke her mouth. Pietro didn't need to hear the words aloud to know what her heart was really saying: _I_ can't _do this alone_.

"Alright," he conceded. He squeezed her hand again, and this time, to his relief, she squeezed back before releasing him.


	14. Part I: Chapter Thirteen

**WARNING: torture mention, blood mention, character referred to as demon/devil**

 **Chapter Thirteen**

* * *

In a cylindrical chamber shrouded in darkness, a girl with hair as red as the blood that caked her skin and leaked from her wounds trembled in the center. The devil stood before her. It wiped its hands with a rag saturated with blood―not its own, and not the girl's, but of the countless bodies ringing the chamber.

"You know why I'm here, don't you?" it asked.

Lian spat at it, and her spit was speckled with blood.

"I'm here," drawled the devil, "for one simple reason."

It wasn't the first time the devil had posed this question, but it would be the first time she answered. Lian didn't know why she did: the word slipped from her lips like it was escaping. Like some desperate cry for help that no one would hear.

"Insanity," she said.

 _Now I know why I answered,_ she thought. _After seeing it murder my father 500 times, I'm on the brink of insanity._

It clicked its tongue. "Afraid not. What am I always telling you, Lian?"

The devil told her lots of things, too many things to remember them all―except for the things designed to break her, that stuck and cut her soul and kept cutting long after the weapon had been removed, the subject changed: those were all too easy to remember. She stared into that cold face as it leered at her. It wanted her to refuse to answer, to refuse to willingly subject herself to more pain by dredging forth the words that crippled her. If she refused, it would win, yet again. It would hold even more power over her. She'd thought the last drop of defiance had been wrung from her long ago, but here lay this opportunity, this way out―triumph through pain.

She forced the words past her lips through gritted teeth, "That my will is weak."

"Gone," the devil corrected, tone distant. It hummed to itself, cleaning away the last speck of blood from its hand with the rag. It kept its hands immaculate, but from its wrists up there wasn't an inch of skin not covered by some substance. It fixed its undivided attention on her now, eyes gleaming. "Your will is gone. And that's the whole point, the whole reason for my presence, my existence. Will. It all comes down to will. Your will determines all the rest. And it's so easy to bend and to break."

A scream clawed its way up her throat. Cracked lips released it and it split the air, an anguished howl.

The devil grinned. "See? See how I have broken you! Broken you beyond repair!"

It laughed and knelt at her side. Its pale hand reached out to her and grasped her chin with long, delicate fingers. Its eyes narrowed when she recoiled at the icy touch. The grip on her chin eased as the hand shifted to cup her face. Devoid of any warmth, the hand numbed the throbbing of her bruises and the pounding of her head. She both wished for the pain and wept at the relief. She had wanted it gone for so long, but her enemy had been the one to take it away.

"It doesn't matter what happens now," cooed the devil. It smiled, a dark twist of the lips dripping with malice. "I broke you. I did. Me. It doesn't matter if your friend saves you, you will be broken. You may try to fix yourself, but I will be there. I will be your jagged edges, your scars, your wound that flares up every time it rains, the monster in the shadows, keeping you looking over your shoulder for the rest of your life. You won't survive it. And when you die, I will be there to live."

Lian choked out, "Then I'll never die."

It occurred to her then, pledging immortality, that this could be her origin story. This could be the point where it all went wrong, and she became the villain.

The devil's grip on her face changed. She heard the sharp _crack_ before she felt her cheekbone snap. She cried out, and the devil released her face. Lian crumbled to the floor of the prison. It planted its boot over her throat. "You'll never be free of me," it warned. "One day, you'll need me."

"Never," she swore.

"You'll trust me," it said, as if she hadn't spoken, "because I'm the devil you know, after all."

One thing was true: she did know the devil. She'd spent months in this very room with it trapped in a coma. It stretched time, it tortured and tormented, and its measured cruelty and possible insanity increased steadily, befitting how in her head her name for it evolved as well: nightmare to shade, demon to devil. She knew its face and how to tell when it lied―it was her face, after all. Only one of them was telling the truth, or at least believed with every ounce of their being they were telling the truth―and it wasn't Lian.

Lian closed her eyes against the pain, against whatever twisted future required her to place her faith in the devil.

"It's time to wake up, Lian."

The devil's voice sounded strange. She peeked up at the creature wearing her face, the shade from the mirror, the demon in her head. It sneered, then the blackness consuming the edges of her vision blotted it out like ink spilled over parchment.

* * *

Blake's sudden cursing jolted Clint out of his light doze. Hypervigilance be damned―he'd come in to help Nat train the new recruits, not be roped into this conspiracy bullshit over Wanda's BFF's impending death. Clint groaned, glancing at the blond techie as the kid jabbed at the tablet screen frantically while swearing so fiercely and in enough different languages that even Clint winced―and he'd grown up in the circus. Wanda sure knew how to pick 'em.

Clint bit the bullet and ambled over to where the kid had set up camp on the coffee table. "What's gone wrong now?" he drawled.

Blake slammed his fist into the coffee table's surface, rattling the meager equipment he'd assembled over the course of their residence in the waiting room. Clint rescued the kid's coffee before the liquid could slosh over the rim. He took a sip. Tepid, but it was caffeine. He set the cup to the side reluctantly. He had bigger problems, such as Blake's rampage.

"She's a hacker! I should have known! _I should have known!_ Shit! She's a fucking hacker!" Blake ranted. He raised the tablet that he'd been diligently working on for the past few hours over his head and brought it down on the sharp corner of the coffee table with a roar.

What was the kid going to do next? Did he think he was the Hulk?

Clint closed his eyes and counted to ten.

Ten seconds later, he opened them to survey the damage. Blake had obliterated the tablet, but wreaked destruction on nothing else, thankfully. Mr. Temper Tantrum himself lay sprawled in a chair, panting, glowering at the glass shards littering the floor.

"I should have known," he kept mumbling, inbetween gasping for air.

"Should have known what?" Clint asked.

Blake dragged a hand through his hair, grimacing. "Lian built failsafes into her work―"

"Her 'work'?" Clint interrupted.

"Yeah, her work. Her software. Her coding. I thought I'd managed to bypass all of them, but she designed this last firewall to transfer all data to an outside source and erase everything if it was breached. I was so close―she hacked her way to theses files, so why would she implant measures that ensured not even she herself could view them?" he explained.

Clint nodded along, then frowned. "And why should you have known this?"

"It was the way she set it up. And the files themselves―she wouldn't have gone digging for them unless someone asked her to," he said.

"Can't you trace where the data went and hack whoever got it?"

 _Good idea, Clint. Mental pat on the back._

"It's no use trying," Blake sighed. "Besides, we know where it went. And I'm not going to try to hack him, even now that his AI is gone."

Clint rubbed his temples. He could feel a headache developing. He needed a drink stronger than coffee if he was going to get through this.

"AI? Who―You've got to be kidding me." _And so the plot thickens._ Clint did his own share of cursing. "I need to shoot something. And a drink. I don't care which comes first."

* * *

Tony Stark glanced down at his phone where it was vibrating around on the worktable with some kind of notification. It'd been buzzing for the past hour. It was probably Pepper. She was the only person whose contact he didn't block while "tinkering." He opened the message with one eye still analyzing the schematics for his latest project. The message's contents soon captured his full attention.

 _Whatever you had me digging for must be real important. I managed to get this so far. I'll need more time for the rest and better shovels. The dirt is set to automatically transfer with this message and erase itself if someone tries to hijack it. Happy early Christmas, Tony. ―Your Favorite Employee_

A grin crawled its way onto his face. McKinnis came through. It looked like he may need to save her from the fire―if someone was trying to "hijack" her, piggyback on her program, it must have been getting hot. But she'd done it! His smirk faded. Whatever they'd been so desperate to hide, it wouldn't be good. It never was.

* * *

When Lian opened her eyes, the first face she saw was Pietro's. Rage erupted inside her at the sight of his perpetually smirking face and unmistakable white hair. She squeezed her eyes shut and slammed a lid on her fury, bottling it. _It's not him, it's not him, it's not him,_ she chanted. She felt her lips forming the shapes of the words, but no sound escaped. She repeated the mantra over and over until she'd wrapped herself in the calm. Lian peeked. Pietro still lounged in a chair near the end of her bed, feet propped up on the mattress. Sucking in a deep breath, she opened her eyes fully, her other senses waking up as well. A shrill beeping blared, then became more subdued. The sharp tang of antiseptic assaulted her nose. Her body ached, every inch of it. Especially her head.

"Lian!" gasped a familiar, feminine voice.

She rolled her head to her left. Wanda perched on the edge of the bed. Lian couldn't decipher her friend's expression. Disappointment struck her. She was usually so good at picking apart code.

"Hey," she croaked.

Wanda clasped her hand, the one that didn't have a plastic piece clamped on her thumb. "How are you? The nurse had trouble waking you."

Pietro scoffed, "Really? 'How are you?' She's dying, Wanda."

 _Dying?_

"No, she isn't!" snapped Wanda, her fingers tightening around Lian's. "We talked about this before she woke up―"

"About me keeping my mouth shut, I got it! But you can't pretend everything is fine!" he raged.

A wave of nausea passed over her. She gritted her teeth and managed to swallow back the bile that rose in her throat. He looked so much like he had in her head, his anger so familiar.

The resemblance was haunting.

Her face hadn't been the only one the demon wore.

Her throat burned. She tugged on Wanda's hand, hoping to tug her out of this quarrel with her brother as well.

"Can I have some water?" Lian rasped. Her voice was barely audible, almost too hoarse to be comprehensible, but Wanda understood. When the other woman left the room, Lian realized the mistake she'd made. She was alone with Pietro.

"You are dying," he said.

Lian laughed, though it sounded more like she was wheezing.

"You deserve to know how bad it is," he added.

"I'm sure it's not good."

Pietro cocked his head. "You don't care if you die?"

 _I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory. It seems more like relief, a release, rather than anything I should fear._

"I'm not scared of it anymore."

"Why not?"

It shocked her, irrationally, that he didn't know the demon. That he couldn't fathom the extents of its influence and torture.

"There are things worse than death."

Pietro shook his head. His eyes burned when he looked at her, but it was like she was burning him, like she'd forced his hand into the fire with her words and was advancing towards him with the flame. "No. No, you're wrong! There is nothing worse than death!" he shouted.

She tried. She tried to tell him how death meant peace and how there was so much in life that meant the opposite, but no sound came out.

"You don't understand!" he continued. "No one does! There is _nothing_ worse than death!" Suddenly his face hovered an inch from hers. "Never say death isn't the worst thing ever again."

"Pietro!"

Wanda burst in, shoving aside her brother. She helped Lian into an upright position and tipped the styrofoam cup of water into her mouth. Cold, smooth liquid flowed down her throat, soothing the dry ache. Lian raised trembling hands and took the cup herself. They steadied somewhat when she gripped the cup and brought it down to her lap. She thought back to the last cup she'd held―coffee, with Blake.

"Wan―" Lian cut herself off. Her friend was busy ranting at Pietro.

"I leave you alone for less than five minutes and when I come back, you're screaming at her! Don't you care that she's my friend, that she's not healthy right now? You agreed to come with me to _help_ and you're causing more problems!"

 _More problems? If she means them arguing, that's not more―it's the same problem they usually have._

"Causing more problems? What problems have I caused?" Pietro demanded, evidently as confused as Lian.

Wanda jabbed him in the chest with her index finger. "I can't read her because _your_ emotions are too all over the place for me to concentrate! This room is practically saturated with your fear!"

Fear? Lian frowned. When had he been afraid? He'd been angry, sure, and opinionated; Lian couldn't imagine what could have frightened him here. Maybe it wasn't Pietro's fear. Perhaps it was hers, lingering from when she'd been unconscious in the demon's clutches.

"We're running out of time," Wanda said. "I asked the nurse about her condition when I got her water. She's not regulating."

Pietro folded his arms. He didn't bother to lower his voice, so Lian didn't have to strain to hear him. "So? You sensed the Scepter's magic. It's in her. Her body's already adapting to it. Why does it matter if she's not healing right away? It took us days before the process was complete."

The machines in the room erupted into a chorus of shrill beeping. Lian hardly heard them, the thudding of her wildly beating heart in her ears drowning everything out. Scepter magic? Healing? Their process being complete . . . He spoke like she was experiencing something they had also gone through. Which was impossible. She was Lian McKinnis. She was normal. She'd been here, in a coma, this whole time, not off being exposed to magic in Europe. She was normal.

 _Normal people don't have demons in their heads._

 _Normal people don't have SHIELD take an interest in their medical condition or wake up from their coma raving mad or get kidnapped by a psychopath and then want to kill the guy who rescued them only to regain their sanity after cracking their head on concrete._

 _You're not normal, Lian. Stop lying to yourself._

No. It was the demon. The voice arguing in her head was the demon. She couldn't escape it by waking up anymore. Unless . . . Was she even awake at all?

 _I told you I would be here._

SHUT UP! JUST SHUT UP!

Her eyes snapped open. She didn't remember closing them. Wanda and Pietro gawked at her.

"I–I'm sorry, Lian," Wanda said, wide-eyed and abashed.

"Sorry for what?" Lian asked. She sipped the water; her mouth was dry, probably from nerves from her mental confrontation. The demon, at least, remained silent.

Wanda stepped away from her brother toward the bed. Her slow, deliberate movements exuded caution. "For upsetting you?"

"'Upsetting' me?" she repeated.

Wanda frowned. "What more do you want me to say? I'm apologizing, Lian. You shouldn't have had to scream at me―"

"Scream at you? I didn't scream at you." She screamed at the demon, but that was all in her head.

"Lian, you shouted at us to shut up," Wanda insisted.

"I don't know what those doctors are talking about. Her lungs are working perfectly fine," muttered Pietro.

That high-pitched beeping started again. "No, I told the _demon_ to shut up. In my _head_."

"What, she's possessed now too?" he snorted.

His sister exhibited more concern.

"It's talking to you right now?" she gasped.

Lian traced her fingertip around the rim of her cup. The beeping quieted. "Not _right_ now. It went away when I shouted at it. It's just waiting. It doesn't matter if it tortures me now. It's just waiting."

Exhaustion hit her. She was just waiting now too.

Wanda asked softly, "Waiting for what?"

Something warm dribbled from her nose. Lian sniffed. Her vision blurred, and wet raced down her cheeks. She reached up a hand and wiped the tears away. They'd do no good now, far too late and too cheap.

She didn't want to see her friend's face, so she shifted her gaze to her hands when she spoke. "Waiting for me to die."

Her hand was stained red.

Pietro had pulled out what looked like a phone, and she could see her reflection in its rectangular surface.

Her nose was bleeding, and she cried tears of blood.

* * *

 **AN: Happy Fourth of July! Today also happens to be the first birthday/anniversary of this fic, which is why I'm updating even though I wanted to wait to finish writing the current arc before posting another chapter. Thank you so much to everyone who reads this. I play a little with the narrator misinterpreting this chapter, little subtle signs that Lian dismisses for something else, such as her attributing her throat's dryness after screaming to nerves. The beeping comes from the heart rate monitors and such. It IS Pietro's fear. And I'm making up a lot of this hacking stuff as I go, though I'm sure that's incredibly clear. Spot the Hamilton reference!**


	15. Part I: Chapter Fourteen

**WARNING: character referred to as demon/devil, mention of mental illness**

 **Chapter Fourteen**

* * *

 _Someone was screaming and a banshee was wailing. Her heart threatened to quite literally burst from her chest. The ache she'd had when she awoke that had faded into the background―its demands for attention muffled by the sweet, sweet painkillers being pumped into her―reared back to its complete uncensored presence. The demon cackled, the soundtrack to her suffering. They'd both been waiting for Lian to die; why couldn't the Reaper hurry up? She didn't care about the demon winning anymore; she didn't want to live forever so it could never._

 _Where was the white light?_

 _Where was the oblivion?_

 _All she felt now was pain._

* * *

"So?" asked Blake eagerly.

The twins glanced at each other. Pietro averted his eyes from his sister's obvious misery.

"I couldn't read her," Wanda said softly. "So . . . we're not any closer to our goal. Did you hack into her file?"

Clint coughed and looked pointedly at the debris littering the floor. Pietro covered his mouth with his fist and held his breath. His eyes bulged with the effort not to laugh.

Blake cleared his throat and shot Clint a look. Sheepishly, he said, "Uh, no. Lian's file was one of the ones Lian herself was in the process of decrypting, it turns out, and I accidentally triggered this failsafe Lian built in to keep out―well, people like me, trying to hack a hacker. So I lost the data."

Pietro winced in sympathy. He'd had that "please tell me you're not really this stupid" look levelled at him before by his sister. It was generally a harbinger of Wanda Maximoff's impression of Nick Fury: sass, impatience, and that special experience of Wanda sending you the mental image of her taking all your bullshit and shoving it back up your ass. The image quite accurately summed up the tone of any conversation with Fury after you'd screwed up.

"Could you not _try again_? Maybe on your _own_ or _on a different tablet?_ " Wanda thundered.

Blake shook his head.

"Why not?" she snapped.

"I can't. The security on that file―it's hardcore. It's the type of serious that the government pulls the pros out of prison for. It's―"

"I get it." She sighed, slumping into a chair. "There's nothing we can do."

Pietro sat next to her and rested his hand on her shoulder. She reached up and placed her hand over his.

"What do you mean? What happened when you saw Deeann?" questioned Clint.

"Lian," corrected Pietro quietly before the mistake could set his sister off. Her tension flooded across their link like a tsunami. She was a roiling mess of emotions.

Clint gave him a funny look, but said nothing more.

Wanda drew her knees to her chest. She rested her chin in the dip between them and blew out a long exhale from quivering pink lips. The dark bags beneath her eyes that seemed to suck out and capture all the light from them seemed more pronounced now. Her shoulders drooped. A single tear escaped and slid down her pale cheek, tracing a wet path down to her chin, where it slipped off instead of trailing down the underside of her jaw to her neck. Pietro wrapped his arm around her back, drawing her into his side like he'd done when they were children.

She shrugged him off, pulling away. She straightened up, too. She was pulling away from him entirely now, body and mind, and he wrapped his arms around himself tightly to keep his insides from spilling out. His gut twisted. He dropped his arms and dug his fingers into the seat cushion to keep from being swept away and drowned in the surge of pain he couldn't tamp down.

"I failed," she was saying, while he was trying to overcome the visceral slashes of hurt that were carving up his ribcage. "She went into cardiac arrest while we were talking. They revived her, but they don't think she'll wake up again. It was hard enough getting her awake the first time and all we succeeded in doing was making her heart rate repeatedly spike from 'overstimulation' and 'distress'. They won't let us back again. I can't reach her from out here."

"You couldn't read her unconscious?" Blake piped up.

"Not anymore. That demon's built a wall so I can't get in."

"Explain this demon thing to me," prompted the archer.

Pietro perked up. He'd been confused about this too.

"It's hard to explain," groaned Wanda. "It's like this entity in her head that's evil. Not like a split personality or schizophrenia. A full time, independent being in there with her. I was dubious in the beginning myself; I thought she could have a mental disorder or it was a 'the devil made me do it' scenario. That was until I got a front row seat to it―the demon, that is." She shuddered. Clint rubbed his throat. Pietro clenched his fists. Playing witness to this demon thing may have been bad for Wanda, but the events that transpired during that time in the outside world felt just as scarring.

"Let's shelve the demon discussion for now," Blake interjected. He looked ready to grab a bible and crucifix and start praying. "We couldn't get any solid proof. So what. You said you're already sure. Tell the doctors it's magic and do whatever vudu spell you need to."

"It's not vudu," Wanda protested.

"Nope." Clint shook his head. "These guys here are serious. They aren't going to let anyone do anything to one of their patients, especially if there's no evidence to back you up and prove it won't hurt the patient more."

"You speak from experience?" Blake guessed.

Pietro snorted. He jeered, "Oh, yeah. Hawkeye over here has his own permanent room they keep just for him, he's here so much."

"Focus!" Wanda snapped.

Pietro glared. " _You_ were the one going on about how you'd failed and there was nothing we could do now. If she's got the powers, she'll be fine. I flatlined a dozen times. They thought I was dead for good, and then my molecules vibrated right through the table." He frowned. "Still haven't figured that one out."

"We were both subjected to constant exposure. We don't even know how long it's been since Lian was around the Scepter," argued Wanda. She continued, "It's like you're just trying to write this off! This is my second chance and you act like you want me to screw it up too!" Her eyes glistened with unshed tears―they reminded him of the waters of the cave. The cave―it had been a long time since he'd thought of it. The comparison left him reeling long enough that her words took a moment to register. By then, she was already storming toward the door.

He moved in front of her. "What are you talking about, second chance?"

She hefted her palm, a blast of energy collecting in it. "Don't make me do this, Pietro. Get out of my way." Her voice broke.

Pietro stared. "What happened?"

His voice cracked. There were too many meanings to the question.

"Pietro . . ."

He stepped to the side.

"Go, Wanda," he whispered, eyes fixed on the hardness of her face, on the scarlet wisps dancing from her fingertips.

Maybe he should just start calling her Scarlet Witch now.

She left and didn't look back.

* * *

 _Hurt. Sadness. Anger. Betrayal. Confusion. Concern. Abandonment. Hurtdepressedworriedirritatedinfuriatedguiltydeterminedhurthurthurthurthurthurt―_

She broke into a sprint, veering off toward the stairs rather than the elevator. It wouldn't be fast enough―fast had become such a joke in her life―and she needed distance. She needed to be able to think, and she couldn't do that in the same room as him. As her brother. For two reasons.

(She blasted the stairwell door open and ignored the AI requesting she provide identification before she proceeded.)

1\. He was unintentionally projecting. He being Pietro Maximoff, her twin brother. The best way to describe Pietro's emotions was to call it a hurricane. A cyclone she'd contributed to, but nevertheless was so strong and magnetic, it drew her mind to her brother's frazzled psyche like a moth to a flame, never mind that she had a stable connection established with him _already_ and didn't need to manually reach out to his mind. His distress, coupled with her own _repressed_ feelings, rendered concentration unachievable.

(The AI finished scanning her by the time she made it to the fourth level. It confirmed that she was indeed Wanda Maximoff and stopped threatening to 'terminate' her―she'd seen that movie during one of the team's "Educating Steve in 20/21st Century Media" nights.)

It also didn't help that every instinct she had was screaming at her to stay away from the demon. It was pure darkness, repulsive―she sensed more destruction from it than she had from Ultron. And it was attached to Lian intrinsically.

2\. Again, Pietro. She couldn't handle him trying to comfort her. Seeing his face was a stark reminder of her first failure. Not just her first failure. The failure she'd vowed to never let happen again, happening again.

She'd been stupid, instigating a situation where they'd be in the same room together in their current states. Pietro, still reeling from the day's trauma. Lian, fated to not even last the day. Even if Pietro's projecting hadn't been as intense, she still wouldn't have been able to concentrate.

(She pushed herself harder, imagining Steve's voice in the back of her head and Natasha's in her ear, urging her to keep climbing until she made it.)

She'd been stupid and arrogant to think she could handle this by herself. She was playing with lives once more, tangling up all the strings like a puppetmaster who'd lost control of their show.

(Reaching the access door to the roof, she flung it open and stumbled out into the night.)

Out of the dim, stuffy stairwell into jarring contrast: she sucked fresh, crisp air into her lungs; she bathed in the starlight; the musicians of nature greeted her warmly, asking for no name, and offering their song. She understood now why her brother enjoyed listening to the crickets on the farm. She wished she were a cricket. It would be a much simpler life, more fulfilling.

Listening to the crickets, Wanda realized they were the only things she could hear. This present moment belonged solely to her. No outside thoughts crowded in her head. Not even her brother's turmoil reached her here. Where was here again? Ah, yes, the roof.

The roof.

Natasha was always drilling her about being aware of her surroundings.

Lian had "woken up" here on the roof.

Maybe that could be important. Maybe Wanda couldn't get ten goddamn seconds without trouble trying to strike at her life.

She sank down at the ledge and replayed the past few weeks in her head. Afterward, she still had nothing of significance, and time was dwindling. She needed more of it. She needed the past. She needed to see what had been done to Lian so she could fix what was happening now. If only she had the Scepter―

Wanda laughed. Hysterically.

Because they did have the Scepter―the only part of it that mattered.

She dug her phone out of her pocket, where Clint had stashed it after she collapsed when she got trapped with Lian and the demon.

"Wanda?" Vision said. His voice had a smile in it. She wished this was a casual call.

"I need some help, Vis," she replied. "Can you meet me on the roof?"

"Of course. I should arrive in―I apologize," he cut himself off, sounding flustered and bashful. "I did not intentionally disregard your request for me to not announce my ETA 'like a GPS.'" She withheld a tired sigh. Progress was progress, and he wouldn't be the man she fell– _befriended_ if she humanized him completely.

A moment later he floated through the surface of the roof and walked over to join her by the edge.

"What is wrong?" he asked.

Wanda turned to face him. "It's Lian."

"The girl in the coma?" he confirmed.

She nodded. "She's . . . relapsed. That's the easiest way to explain it. We don't know why, or how, but I believe it has something to do with magic." She reached up and brushed her fingers over the gem embedded in his head. "This magic."

Vision cupped her hand in both of his and lowered it. "From what you've told me of her, that's impossible." He blinked. "That's odd."

"What?"

"I tried to access her file from the database but encountered a block." His eyes fixed on a blank point in the sky over her shoulder for roughly twenty seconds, and then he smiled down at her. "There. No more block."

Wanda gawked at him. It had taken him twenty seconds to crack a code Blake couldn't in three hours. Finally she said, "Thanks, Vis. I'm just surprised. I was told the block couldn't be hacked."

Vision shrugged his shoulders, smile shifting into a small, almost shy, smirk. "From Jarvis's memories I can assure you there are only two lifeforms currently in this facility capable of 'hacking' this block, as you say. I am one of them. Your Miss McKinnis is the other. Oh, I do hope she's alright." Vision's expression slackened. He shook his head slowly, glancing around as if disoriented. "I―am sorry, Wanda. That was strange, I admit. Jarvis has fond memories of your friend. They were quite close, so recollecting them was more intense than I expected."

Wanda filed that away for another time. "It's okay. You gained access to her file: Does it say anything about her being involved with HYDRA?"

Vision's right eye glowed blue, and holograms blazed to life in the air. "I am projecting her file," he clarified.

Wanda nodded, already engrossed in a particular document. The android skimmed over what she was reading.

"Her history is important?" he questioned. "You implied that determining whether or not magic had anything to do with her condition was the priority."

"It is," she muttered. "But this―No, you're right. She's dying. Her history can wait. Her future can't." She swiped the document away. "Anything about her being a participant in the Scepter experiments? Like me and Pietro?"

"No."

"No? That can't be right!" she protested.

"No documented experimentation, but there is a reference to possible affiliation with HYDRA," Vision continued. "Although it is plausible it simply was omitted from the report if they found evidence of experimentation."

"What do you mean?" She frowned.

"You were under the impression that Lian had been here in a coma for six months following an explosion in a lab?"

"So that isn't true?" Her heart sank. "Lian's been lying?"

"I don't think Lian knew of this deception either, if that is any comfort," said Vision. "They've been very careful to maintain this farce."

"If this all some scheme, what really happened?" she demanded. Her phone started buzzing. Tapping it, the screen blinked to life, Clint's picture popping up with the caller ID. She reluctantly answered the call. "What is―"

"Get to the medical ward! Now!" he barked.

The urgency in his tone dissolved any hesitation she might have had. She signalled to Vision, and he shut down the projection and headed toward the door.

"Why? What's going on?" She checked the watch on her wrist, a recent acquisition. The digital numbers were frozen at 1:47, about ten minutes after she'd made it up here.

"Lian―"

 _She was too late._

"―and Pietro are both down! He just collapsed right before the entire medical staff swarmed out into the waiting room screaming about Lian being dead and then some blue light!"

Clint's frantic voice became lost to her ears. _She'd failed both of them._

Her foot crossed the threshold. She sank to her knees on the first step of the stairwell and screamed. A shockwave split the shimmering air. The walls shook. Dust rained down. She clenched her fists to contain the explosion she felt building in her palms. She couldn't do this again. She couldn't lose him―

Wanda careened forward, unconscious in the span of a second, as if a hypnotist had snapped their fingers and put her to sleep. Her fists relaxed; blinding crimson light seeped through the cracks between her fingers. The walls quivered for a moment before collapsing with a roar, the stairwell obliterated. Vision phased through the ceiling as it crumbled, but it buried Wanda in the rubble. He heaved chunks of sheetrock off where he'd last seen her, uncovering her arm first. On her wrist, her watch had started ticking again, and the time had changed to 5:05. Above them, the sky was rapidly lightening as sunrise approached, as if time had been stopped and now it needed to catch up.

* * *

 **Happy Halloween!**

 **And yes, the Hamilton reference made in the last chapter was 'I imagine death so much it feels more like a memory'**


	16. Part I: Chapter Fifteen

**WARNING: blood mention, torture mention, corpse mention, character referred to as a demon/devil, alcohol**

 **Chapter Fifteen**

* * *

In a cylindrical chamber shrouded in darkness, a boy with white hair stirred from his sleep in the center. A girl with hair as red as the blood that slicked her skin knelt at his side. The devil stood before them both, cleaning its hands on the rag with the same meticulousness with which it always performed the task. No, not a task―a ritual. It flicked the rag midway; a droplet of blood splattered on the boy's cheek. The girl lifted a shaky hand to wipe it away, but the boy's eyes flashed open as he snatched her wrist out of the air with inhuman speed.

His gaze flitted over her face and about the chamber, then down at himself sprawled on the floor, before returning to the vaguely familiar face beneath the blood and bruises.

"Lian?" he whispered.

The girl offered a weak smile―or a grimace, could have been either―and flexed her wrist, still held captive by his grip. He released her, immediately wiping the blood on his palm on his pants.

He expected her to say something―this was Lian after all, and if he could at least hear her chatter, he'd know everything would be fine. She said nothing, though, just urged him to sit up.

"Where are we?" he asked. He didn't recognize this place, and with its shape and rocky walls, he doubted it was anywhere on the facility's grounds. Maybe this was a secret bunker, and they were under attack. If that was the case, where was everyone else, and why wasn't he out fighting?

Lian's voice cracked as she answered, "We're with the demon, in my head."

* * *

Clint had resorted to drinking.

He'd gone and found his own supply of alcohol when his messages to Nat requesting they meet up in the lounge to get drunk remained unread. He nursed a beer or two there in the waiting room after Wanda left. Eventually, he dragged Pietro and Blake out of there and to the living quarters, where he knew Tony kept a liquor cabinet stocked, to Steve's disapproval. They both wallowed; they both turned out to be insufferably maudlin drunks. He almost preferred them sober, especially when he challenged Pietro to keep up with him in shots and the kid's superhuman metabolism prevented him from getting more than a faint buzz at any time, which guaranteed victory.

Nat was much better company.

He didn't even want to get drunk, but right now, he couldn't think of another way to cope that didn't involve him shooting at targets of Loki, like he'd done for months in the barn. The shooting range was locked up; apparently, Steve didn't want the newest members of the team training without him.

He missed Laura and his kids and his house and his projects and his woodpile―he missed _home_.

For about the twentieth time, he pulled up Laura's contact in his phone and hovered his thumb over the green call icon.

He'd feel so much better if he could just hear her voice.

 _She's asleep, and you know Nate's been keeping her from getting much of that. And calling just to get the voicemail won't work because it'll just wake her up anyway._

He sighed.

Beside him, Pietro propped his head in his hand.

Clint touched his shoulder. "Hey, kid?"

The twin grunted in acknowledgement.

Clint hesitated, then decided not asking might only allow the situation to fester. "What happened between you and Wanda?"

"Hell if I know," he tried to grumble, but his voice cracked, betraying him. "You saw her. She _threatened_ me. Me! And she's not telling me stuff anymore either. I don't know what's even broken for me to fix."

Clint rubbed the boy's back (Pietro was still just a boy in Clint's eyes; old enough for alcohol consumption but too much of an idiotic amateur to be referred to as anything but "kid") and tried to articulate his sorrow for this rift torn between them. "I'm sure she's just stressed right now and a bit irritable, that's all. You know how angsty you teenagers are these days," he placated, though he doubted he convinced Pietro when he didn't believe the words himself. (The stressed and irritable bit―he knew for a fact how angsty the Maximoff twins were.)

Pietro lifted his head and faced the archer. The speedster's eyes glistened. "She'd threaten my life and scramble my brain because she's stressed? You couldn't feel it, Clint. Her desperation . . . it was causing her pain to be _near_ me . . . because I'm a monster."

Clint didn't expect to hear _that_ , but maybe he should've. "Kid, you're not a monster," he denied. "I didn't name my son after a monster."

Pietro softened for a moment at the mention of little Nathaniel, but once it passed, the subject of the Barton family only strengthened his conviction further.

"I'm a monster, and I'm a danger to your family," he whispered. He pressed the balls of his hands into his closed eyelids, grimacing. "I killed you, and them, everybody―how can you look at me now?"

Clint grabbed his adoptive son's wrists and tugged them away from his face so he could see Pietro's eyes. "Listen to me, Pietro," implored Clint. _"That wasn't real."_

"I'm still a monster. Wanda hates me. I messed things up with Lian, and ruined her second chance, whatever that was. And now she's just cut off." He threaded his fingers into his hair and yanked. "I don't know what to do to make things right. Even if it wasn't real, Wanda made me feel like it was. _Wanda_ did. She used her powers _against_ me. It just feels _wrong_."

Clint tossed back one last shot. "Maybe you both have broken parts to fix," he said, gently, as a father would. He nudged Pietro's arm as the boy gazed off, pondering, ruminating. "Come on."

Pietro followed obediently, helping to rouse Blake, who'd passed out on the couch. Clint wouldn't have continued lugging the techie's dead weight around if not for the sole fact Blake knew more than he did at the moment. The trio staggered, not entirely sober, to the elevator. Pietro frowned when Clint selected the hospital ward's level as their destination.

"What are we doing?" he questioned.

If Clint was in a sappy fanfiction, this would've been the moment where he squeezed Pietro's hand reassuringly, looked deep into his eyes and read his soul, softened his voice and said, "We're going to make things right."

What actually came out of his mouth as he slung an arm around Pietro's shoulders was, "We're going to break the dying hacker chick out of surgery."

Blake, drunk, cheered.

Pietro straightened up, nodded, expression grim, but his eyes didn't look dead for the first time in―how long had it been? Clint couldn't recall right now, especially after this long, crummy day. But he knew what that light meant―the kindling of hope. Hope for what? Clint didn't know for sure. Pietro did, though. The seasoned veteran of two world catastrophes reminded himself that was all that mattered. He trusted the kid―he had to, because Clint knew Pietro's hope could make him dangerous.

They arrived at the medical ward, the elevator doors sliding open to reveal nothing amiss. Everything ordinary, on schedule, no obvious divergence from routine―perfect. No anomalies to worry about or factor into their hastily concocted and inevitably flawed plans. "Hastily concocted" meaning Clint had come up with it during the two and a half minute ride up here. "Inevitably flawed" meaning it had enough holes to masquerade as swiss cheese.

Clint nudged Blake out. The blond stumbled into the waiting room, arms flailing, warbling rock music. The receptionist darted out from behind her desk to catch him as he tripped. A streak of silver zipped to take the woman's place. Pietro dug through the papers stacked neatly on the desk, taking long enough Clint could see him. And if Clint could see him―

Finally, Pietro found what he was looking for and snuck back to the elevator just in time. The receptionist escorted the drunken Blake past her desk and to a back room, grabbing her keys on the way.

"So?" prompted Clint.

Pietro sucked in a deep breath and dangled a single key along with a slip of paper in Clint's face.

Clint clapped a hand on Pietro's shoulder. "Let's go, then."

They crossed the room at normal speed and slipped through the door that led to the inner workings of the hospital, where Pietro and Wanda had gone just a few hours before. Clint consulted the room number printed on the stolen paper.

"I think this room is down . . . that hallway?" He pointed left.

Pietro wasn't listening. He was staring unblinkingly down the right hallway.

"Pietro?"

"I hear . . ." he muttered. "That way . . ."

Clint was all for trusting one's instincts; his had saved his skin more times than he could count. But this felt like more. For one thing, Clint heard _nothing._

Before he could caution Pietro, the speedster had zipped down the right hallway, leaving Clint with no choice but to follow. When he finally caught up, he found Pietro standing in front of a door with the same number as the paper, peering intently inside, practically vibrating in his concentration. Wait― _was he vibrating?_ Pietro hadn't mastered that skill, or at least couldn't maintain or control it, though apparently he killed Clint by it in his fear-vision. Clint stepped forward. Something wasn't right.

A flash of blue light from inside the room―Lian's room―blinded him. He heard a nearby scream, several cries and gasps, and then a thud. The door flew open. A swarm of medical personnel barrelled out as if running for their lives. Clint stumbled out of the way, searching for Pietro's white head and catching a glimpse inside the room of a body laid out on an operating table, flickering with the same incandescent blue light. As much as that image disturbed him, he pushed it away and focused on finding Pietro.

When the last of the doctors and nurses fled the scene, surely breaking that "first, do no harm" maxim, Clint located Pietro.

The Sokovian twin was sprawled on the floor, eyes closed, chest rising and falling regularly as if the kid was in a deep sleep.

Clint nudged him, called his name, ran to a nurse's station and retrieved a cup of melted ice chips to dump on his head, all to no avail. He glanced in the room, at Lian on the table, unconscious. It couldn't be a coincidence, and Clint highly doubted a stampede knocked Pietro out cold. He called Wanda, relief rushing through him when she picked up, only for his heart to plummet once more at the sounds of destruction, followed by the sharp tone of the call cutting off.

* * *

"Why am I here?"

"Why are any of us here? To serve some greater purpose? To share a gift with the world? To live insignificant, meaningless lives doomed to be inevitably snuffed out like a candle?" mused the demon. It sidled closer to Lian, movements languid. Pietro grabbed the girl and jerked her out of the creature's reach. The demon's chuckle was low, throaty, and he wondered if Lian could make that noise too. The demon smiled indulgently at him. "Regardless of _why_ we are here, we are but specks, lasting less than the span of a blink in the vast infinity of the cosmos. Everything we do amounts to nothing, and after our deaths we are forgotten, misplaced energy continuing on the great cycle. But we are nothing. We mean nothing."

Pietro ignored the demon's chattering. Though it may have acknowledged his presence, its words weren't meant for his ears. He crouched next to Lian.

"Don't listen to it," he urged her, dipping his head to attempt to make eye contact with her bowed head. He sounded like a broken record, he knew, repeating the same phrases over and over, instructions she'd been struggling to follow for longer than he could imagine from a manual on maintaining a semblance of sanity. Pietro didn't care about what his life meant or his significance in the grand scheme of the universe, but for some reason, Lian did. He'd figured that much out, at least, after he'd stopped denying that this was his new reality.

He'd tried running up the walls. They stretched on infinitely, and eventually he ended up back on the ground, whether he stopped running up or not. He'd investigated every nook and cranny, searching for a way out. He'd even shut his eyes and tried to pass out again, but when he opened them, he was still there. He didn't really believe Lian about the demon until it showed up looking just like her, but crueler and colder, and Lian flinched at its slightest twitch.

"It doesn't make it any better if I don't," Lian muttered. She clamped her hands over her ears anyway. Pietro covered them with his own to help drown out the demon's droning. He wouldn't have believed the demon _was_ a demon if he hadn't witnessed the way it tormented Lian: physically and emotionally, often at the same time. Even now it flickered its form from its eerie guise as Lian's soulless lookalike to brief images of who he assumed were Lian's family members, either hurt or spitting hatred. Lian had told him that the demon was going easy because of his inexplicable appearance. Pietro tried not to look past the blood to the wounds beneath; it only made the pit in his stomach hollow out even more.

He focused on Lian's mouth. Her lips moved, curving around the shapes of words. No sound emerged; he doubted he'd have been able to hear her speak anyway over the backdrop of screams.

 _He's_ was one word. She repeated the same two over and over, gaze fixed on his shoes―ironically, those extra durable running shoes he'd ordered and had yet to receive.

 _Real._

 _He's real._

Pietro closed his eyes. Lian was telling herself he was real. He wondered how many times this scenario occurred in the demon's illusions, how many times it had tricked her with false saviors and imagined rescues. He wondered why she even believed he _was_ real this time.

Then he realized . . . she didn't. She wasn't reassuring herself, she was trying to convince herself. She was praying for him to be real.

 _What's real and not real?_

He remembered how skewed his perception of reality and simulation had been, both after his trip to the Box and Wanda whammying him. He'd killed or lost everyone―except Lian. He hadn't finished her off, simply ripped out her tongue to stop her chatter. Unnecessary outside the simulation because the demon had broken her of that particular trait. His heart stalled in his chest. Alone here with a Lian who wasn't talking, the only other human, the only one he hadn't killed―

 _That wasn't real. This is unrelated,_ he reminded himself. No need to dream up connections where there were none.

They both barely treaded water in this sea of paranoia. The demon didn't need to work too hard on driving Lian insane; the question of Pietro's existence would carry her there. It didn't need to bother tormenting Pietro, either: he'd do that to himself.

The girl with the red hair and the boy with the white hair sat together on the floor, covering the girl's ears while their realities unraveled like a spool of wayward yarn.

The demon laced its fingers together, smiling as it watched the pair. This was what it wanted. Let them lean on each other. Let them become allies and protectors and friends and learn to care for the other. It would be all the more painful when it ripped Pietro away. Time to work.

Lian knew the instant it left; time finely tuned her senses to all things demon, devil, shade, spirit. Its comings and goings appeared random, but the demon (she called it a mere demon for Pietro's sake) calculated its every move with precision she would have admired if not for how it had been weaponized. The screams ceased. Bodies materialized in their stead. Lian was desensitized to them by now. Pietro wasn't.

He clutched her arm. "Lian . . ."

She crawled toward the nearest one. Her father. The next. Her youngest sister, Giselle. Beside her lay the corpse of Pepper Potts, and on her other side, a crushed Iron Man suit. Lian scrambled over the dead, searching through blank faces for the surprise surely left to her. There always was one. At first, she'd been revolted by the notion of digging through the bodies. She'd vomited and screamed until she'd lost her voice, or the demon had severed her vocal cords, either one. The second time she'd clawed at her skin until she was a bloody pulp and there could be no trace of the deed left on her. It'd become routine now, a game―the demon would conjure a stopwatch and time how fast she could find the "prize."

"Lian!" Pietro choked out. "What the hell are you doing?"

 _He doesn't understand._

Resentment pooled in her belly. She hated having to explain the rules of this place to him like they made any sense. She hated how he looked at her. She was surviving. That was all she could focus on. Surviving. She'd been playing the game for far too long to worry about its consequences.

 _I hope he never comes to understand._

She glanced over her shoulder at him as she crested the hill of bodies. He stood at the very edge, feet shifting, his entire face gritted, not just his teeth. His eyes, however, gazed emptily at her older sister's corpse, a glazed stare she recognized as being enthralled by a memory. As if she had his speed, she leaped back down the way she came, sprinting toward him. Her outstretched arms connected with his shoulders. They both tumbled backwards. Pietro blinked, jarred from his flashback.

"Memories," gasped Lian, "can kill you here too."

The decision cemented in her mind before she could even question her making of it. She would protect him. Keep him alive, find him a way out. Forget her own survival. She was already too fucked up to exist out in the world. Pietro Maximoff still had a chance.

She scrambled off his chest then. When she regained her footing, balancing on two heads, she extended her hand to him. "Come on," she insisted. "We have to find it before the demon comes back."

"Find what?" he questioned, propped up on his elbows.

"The key," she said.

"'Key?'" Pietro repeated.

"When it leaves the pile of bodies, there's always an object or person that glows with this blue light. It's usually a clue to some riddle or challenge the demon threatens me with or a tool to fight it with to make the game more interesting. I think I used one of them once to get out of here," Lian elaborated. She frowned. "I don't remember my time here very well. It's why the demon has to remind me."

Pietro stared at her. The way she spoke of this place, the demon, its torture, with such familiarity and acceptance, the word choice of describing the demon 'reminding' her of its past torments inflicted as if she was merely forgetful and it was her own fault. How she referred to this endless cycle as a game. It unnerved him. They needed to be free of this place, real or not, as soon as possible. He definitely believed Wanda that something was going on here, magic and beyond. If achieving escape meant climbing over corpses with faces he recognized―He breathed in through his mouth. So be it.

He took Lian's hand and they began scaling the hill, following Lian's previous path. When they reached the summit, they found the key, awash in light like gleaming sapphires, suspended in the air in repose, her sleeping face still and blank.

"Wanda," Pietro breathed.


	17. Part I: Chapter Sixteen

**Hey, hey, long time no see?**

 **WARNING: abuse, torture mention, character referred to as a demon/devil, blood mention, scar mention, mild cursing**

 **Chapter Sixteen**

* * *

The girl with the red hair and the boy with the white hair kept vigil over the sleeping sister who was called a witch.

They'd carried her body back to the center of the chamber, the hill of corpses vanishing as soon as they lowered her to the floor. They had tried to wake her, to no avail. Shouting, shaking, tickling―none of it had an effect. If anything, she seemed to sleep deeper, harder. Pietro never left her side, and seldom did he lift his gaze from her face. Lian wanted to talk, to strategize, to discuss coming up with some kind of plan or what the demon's plan might be with Wanda's presence. But he kept his face turned away, refusing to acknowledge her, or perhaps scared to―scared if he looked away from his sister, she might disappear.

"Pietro," Lian called for the third time, "Pietro!"

His lips moved, but any words he spoke were inaudible.

"What?"

A muscle in his cheek jumped. "I said, what is it you want?" he growled.

At least it was a response. "I want to talk about why she's here."

The speedster stiffened. "She's here to get us out of this hellhole. We just need to wait for her to wake up," he said slowly, calmly.

Lian studied the other woman's still features, though they hadn't changed since she'd looked last. "What if she doesn't wake up?" she asked softly.

"She _has_ to."

Lian glanced at Pietro's expression, contorted with a grief he resisted feeling. She reached out, laying a hand on his knee. He brushed it away, slamming his palm down between them.

"Dammit, Lian, she's going to wake up, and she's going to know how to get out of here, because this mental thing is her gig. She's done it before."

"Wait, what?" Lian's heart sprouted wings in her chest and took flight, beating against her ribcage in its attempts to reach freedom.

Pietro frowned. He repeated, "She's done this before?"

"How? When? Where? Her own head?" questioned Lian.

He tilted his head in her direction; his eyes, however, remained planted on his sister. "You mean . . . You never knew she was here?"

 _"Here?"_ Lian gasped. _"Here? She was here and she got out?"_ Wanda was here and she got out! Wanda was here and _got out_! There was no way out; you didn't escape; you were let go, there was no way out. Wanda was here _and_ she got out. The demon lied! Wanda _was_ the key. Wanda was here and she got outWandawashereandshegotoutWandawashereandshegotout―

"Lian!" Pietro's hands were clamped on her shoulders. When her eyes focused again, his were fixed to hers, pinning her there in the present moment, in solid things she could touch. Her hands twitched in her lap and then they rose up to Pietro's face without her permission, guided by impulse and instinct and some part of her that had survived the demon.

Her fingertips brushed over his cheekbones, across the bridge of his nose, beneath his eyes. His hands caught hers and held them. "Lian," he said, "you know there's a way out. And you know I'm not going to leave you here." Pietro squeezed her hands. "You know that, right?"

She shook her head, but no tears welled in her eyes. "We're gonna get you and Wanda both out, but there is no way for me. I'll―I'll stay."

"Lian!"

"There is no way," she snapped. "I don't even know how long I've been here, but I have searched for a way out every spare second and one doesn't exist. At least, not for me. There was never any hope for me. But there is for the two of you."

"Maybe it's just a way _you're_ not able to find. Wanda's the key. Maybe it's a lock only she can open," suggested Pietro. "Hey, look at me. Lian. Look at me." He gently disentangled one of their hands to cup her chin. "We will find a way for you. You just saved my life. It's my turn to save yours. I'm not going to leave you here."

Lian couldn't remember the last time she'd cried. It'd felt like she'd run out of tears early on, and then run out of screams, too, and for a few moments the wetness felt strange on her skin. Then Pietro wiped a tear away with the pad of his thumb, and the floodgates opened. They gushed down her cheeks, and he drew her to his chest. His shoulder muffled her sobs. Eventually her tears subsided, but they stayed there, enfolded in each other's arms, not ready to face demons or illusion or sleeping sisters quite yet, marvelling at their own survival. He was exhausted, but every time he closed his eyes, he saw the mountain of bodies. He heard Lian's voice explaining how they had to climb it.

"How are you not insane?" Pietro asked her, brushing his fingers down the bumps of her spine and up again.

Lian tilted her head back to meet his gaze. "Maybe I am," she said softly.

Looking up at him, she realized what that meant: he'd taken his eyes off of Wanda. For her.

* * *

"Sorry, Sam, for wasting your time again," said Steve. Pulling into the triple level parking garage, Steve parked the truck in his reserved slot and cut off the engine. He turned to face Sam in the passenger seat.

Sam shrugged. "It was a solid lead, just . . . cold."

"Still, I'm sorry for dragging you along all the time for dead ends."

"We knew it wasn't going to be easy. Mr. Russian Assassin from Brooklyn knows how to cover his tracks. This was a tip I picked up anyway. I shouldn't have gotten your hopes up."

Steve started to protest, but Sam shot him a look.

Steve conceded, "They were up, but I should've known better by now. I appreciate you helping me with this Sam, but Bucky is ultimately _my_ responsibility, my fault. So don't beat yourself up about it. Neither of us will." Steve cracked his knuckles. "What do you say, wanna hit the gym with me? Burn off a little excess energy?"

Sam shook his head. "I'm starving, man. I'm gonna stash my wings in my locker, then grab a bite and hit the showers." He sniffed at his shirt. His nose wrinkled up. "Actually, I'll hit the showers first."

The blond laughed and plucked at his own shirt. "You're right, I could use some grub and a hot shower, too."

They made it as far as the lobby of the main building, heading for the bank of elevators, when the ceiling rumbled, and Steve tensed at a faint vibration beneath his feet.

* * *

"How long is the demon usually gone?" Pietro asked.

Lian shrugged. "Depends. It'll probably give us time to stew over Wanda and―" She cut herself off.

"And what?" Pietro jumped on her hesitation.

She sighed and started tracing one of her newer scars on her wrist to avoid looking at Pietro. "And I imagine it'll leave us alone for a while to give me time to get attached to you, like it knows I am to Wanda. That way it'll cause me pain when it rips the both of you away." _Like it doesn't know its plan has succeeded already._ She continued picking at the scar until Pietro's silence became disconcerting. Frowning, she added, "If you're afraid it will kill you, it prefers to exhaust all means of torturing me with a source before killing it. And it likes you, so it'll probably just keep you anyway and leave me with an illusion of your corpse. Though hopefully we've come up with a plan of escape by then."

"That's not― _Likes me_?" Pietro gawked.

Lian prodded him in the knee. "You're not covered in blood, are you? Well, you are, but that's from me hugging you. My point is, it doesn't hate you like it hates me."

"Am I detecting a _duh_ in your tone of voice?"

 _"Duh."_

"Of course I'm trapped here with a twelve year old."

Lian glowered. "Well, it's not like you were my first pick, either."

"Who would have been?" Pietro asked.

"My first pick?" He nodded. She bit her lip, then winced, having forgotten the open cuts. "Logically, your sister would be a good pick, given her powers and everything."

"And illogically?" he pressed.

She tipped her head, a curtain of hair swinging forward to obscure his view of her expression. "Illogically . . . no one and everyone." The portion of her mouth he could see, unshielded by her hair veil, quirked up in a rueful grin. "Being here . . . I wouldn't want _anyone_ to go through this. Not even my mother. But if it wasn't a question of protecting my loved ones, if it was just having someone here to be with me, to be with me when I die, then I'd pick Tony or my father."

"Stark?" Pietro frowned. "You are close with him?"

Lian tucked her hair behind her ear to gawk at him in his confusion. Eventually, her expression cleared, and she let out a wispy little laugh. "I guess Wanda didn't tell you. I work for Tony. Well, I did before the coma. For Stark Industries, to be specific. I work with computers."

"So you want your . . . boss to be there in your dying moments?" Pietro clarified, dubious. He knew firsthand how Lian's chatter could be annoying, but for her life to be so devoid of anyone to love her she'd resort to her employer for companionship at the end, she must be even more repulsive than normal out in the real world.

Lian rolled her eyes. Her fingernails scrabbled at the inside of her wrist. Her voice soft instead of defensive, she explained, "He's been good to me. He took me in instead of throwing me in jail, treats me like family. He, uh, used to joke that I could be his and Pepper's daughter. Because of the tech and the red hair. I used to laugh it off, but him saying that meant everything to me. The idea of being his daughter, even with how shitty he is at times, I wanted it to be true so _badly_. Don't get me wrong, I love my dad, and my sisters, though Jackie _is_ hard to love, but my mother―" Her voice cracked.

She struggled to clear the stricken expression from her face; he waited for her to regain her composure and continue. "Anyway, here's Tony, who I've come to love as family, who's given me a new home, a new _life_ , and who says I could be his daughter―of course I want it to be true. And he's a genius. He'd _build_ us a way out while keeping up humor. And Tony, for all the shit he's done, and for all the shit he'll probably do, has never hurt me.

"Of course, we trade barbs and he was a total ass when we first met, but he's never hurt me like my actual family has. And it's not all their fault, either. My dad and baby sister mean everything to me. Jackie . . . She's my older sister and siblings beat each other up. That's the way it is. She just gets mad; she's always had a bit of a temper. So I don't harbor any ill will for her slapping me and my self-esteem around from time to time. My mom―she ruins _everything_. I can't even be around them without her toxicity polluting any interaction. I haven't been home for Christmas since I was twenty. But―shit, I'm sorry, I'll shut up now. I'll shut up." Eyes like a deer caught in the headlights, she buried her face in her knees, which she drew to her chest and wrapped her arms around.

Pietro's stomach churned. Did he regret pushing her to answer? Should he try to offer comfort? He didn't know Lian's family, but he hated them. Even if they didn't harm her, they allowed her mother to do so, which branded them equally guilty. He didn't need an elaboration; he didn't want one. He knew enough to hate them, and he didn't want any excuses or explanations in justification of their actions.

With his arm wound around Lian's shoulders, it didn't occur to him to wonder about his strong reaction to the news. He just held her, the rock in the middle of the sea, battered by waves but unwavering.

"Can we talk?" blurted Lian later, after they'd separated and returned to observing Wanda in case of the slightest change.

He smirked. "Can't keep quiet, can you?" he teased. She bumped his shoulder but twitched her head to the side in order to swing her hair out from behind her ear. Pietro fought down the urge to brush it back, elbowing her instead. "Yeah, let's talk. Sitting in silence was killing me, too. I hate waiting when I can get everything done so fast."

Lian glanced up, eyes bright, already shoving that thick red divider out of her sight. "Okay, I've got one. Are you going to be an Avenger, like Wanda?"

Pietro fixed his gaze on his sister when he spoke. It felt like a millennia before he could force the words out. "I should, I know I should. It'd be the right thing to do. And it would keep me close to her, so I could protect her. She can take care of herself, yes, but the instinct doesn't go away because she's more capable of defending herself than ever."

Lian aligned her foot with his, nudging him in the process. He glanced down at them side by side. Surprisingly, hers wasn't too much smaller, despite their height difference and Lian's petite stature. He hadn't noticed her lack of footwear before. His gaze slid up her leg and eventually roved over her entire appearance, taking note of the absence of suitable apparel. He'd "awoken" here dressed in the clothes he'd been wearing outside her head, with the addition of his shoes. Lian wore gray, though the dried blood made it difficult to discern the color. The thin short-sleeved shirt matched her pants, which resembled the nurses' scrubs. He plucked at the fabric. No wonder she shivered so often; the garments provided little to no insulation.

"Pietro," prompted Lian.

"Hm? Oh, right. Promise me one thing first," he persuaded.

Lian raised her eyebrows, but nodded without asking why.

"Promise . . . Promise me you won't think less of me."

"Okay," Lian replied easily.

He inhaled. "No, I need to hear you say the words," he insisted.

She sighed. "I promise I won't think less of you," Lian enunciated.

The words poured out of him then, like her reassurance was permission. "I died, Lian. I died, and I don't want to die again. I can't let that happen. I have to get faster so I don't get myself killed next time, so I can be _better_ , and they can trust me to do my job without turning into a martyr. But . . . Being gifted with a second chance at life opened my eyes. I don't want to miss out. I don't want to go so fast that I miss Nate learning to walk and talk, or Cooper learning to drive, or any of Lila's creative phases. I want to be _around_ for that, for them, for it all. And there's so much I've already missed. Wanda brought me back, but there's this–this insurmountable _distance_ between us." He spread his arms. His voice dropped as his arms did. "I don't know how to get rid of it. So as much as I want to be a hero, I want to stay on that farm with those kids and be Uncle Pete."

Lian's fingers curled over his knee. "Why would that make me think less of you?"

"It's cowardly," Pietro whispered.

"It's _human_. It makes me think _more_ of you."

His heart swelled in his chest. Perhaps he should divulge more secret fears to Lian so she could tell him his weaknesses weren't really weaknesses after all.

"Keep talking," she murmured, resting her head on his arm.

"About what? I thought you were the one with the big mouth," he countered. "We used to never be able to get you to shut up."

She winced. "I must have been so obnoxious."

" _Been_ obnoxious? I never said you weren't still obnoxious," protested Pietro. His lips curved into a smirk as he glanced down at Lian, but she didn't share his mirth.

Her thoughts had ventured down a darker road.

"Don't worry, you won't have to put up with me much longer," she mumbled.

A fist wrapped around his heart and squeezed. "What?" _Correct me. Tell me I'm mad and you didn't say anything like that._

Lian tilted her head back and offered him a smile that didn't reach her eyes. "Nothing," she said. She scooted away and stretched out on her back. Her arm thrown over her eyes, she asked, "Sorry, I know we were going to talk some more, but I'm really tired. Do you mind if I sleep for a bit?"

"Go ahead," he replied. With her eyes closed and face covered, she couldn't see his troubled expression. He rubbed his arm. Goosebumps bloomed on his skin. It felt cold without her. He wondered if she was always so shifty, close one second and distant the next. _Women_.

"Come on, Wanda," Pietro muttered. "Wake up." He might follow Lian in her descent into madness if he didn't get out of here soon.

* * *

Clint, Steve, Sam, and Vision stared at the three bodies they'd laid side by side on individual examination tables. They'd each shared their accounts and come to the conclusion that the simultaneous loss of consciousness was anything but coincidental. Steve and Sam, who both had no idea what had been going on, had to be entirely caught up, not that Clint and Vision had much concrete information to report. Just theories and vague notions.

"And that's not even the weirdest part," Clint finished his retelling of the stampede outside of Lian's room following the flash of light. He strode between Pietro and Lian's bodies and first peeled back Lian's eyelids, revealing her irises glowing blue. Then he turned to Pietro and did the same, followed by Wanda. They'd all seen the scarlet gleam to Wanda's eyes when using her powers before, but the blue unnerved them.

"You know what it reminds me of?" Clint spoke up.

Steve grimaced. "Loki."

Clint nodded. He clarified for Sam and Vision, "When Thor's bastard brother used the Scepter to mind control m—people, their eyes went blue. Not as bright as this, but they changed color."

Vision touched the gem in his forehead. "I didn't―"

"We know you didn't do this, Vis," interrupted Steve. He stood next to Wanda, frowning over her. Her skin shimmered faintly where Dr. Cho's machine had healed her. Vision had rescued her from the stairwell collapse just in time. She was lucky to be alive and not crushed beneath the rubble. The watch on her wrist had miraculously survived intact what her body didn't. He clenched his fists. "The question is, who did?"


	18. Part I: Chapter Seventeen

**WARNING: discussions of death, violent behavior**

 **Chapter Seventeen**

* * *

" _Ana, wake up."_

She cracked open bleary eyes. A man's face hovered above her own, brown eyes against suntanned skin, blond hair flopping over his forehead. His mouth curved in that teasing grin she knew so well, framed on either side by dimples. She squeezed her eyes shut.

"Please, no, not this," she said, pressing the heels of her hands into her eyes. "Not this. Anything but this."

Warm hands wrapped around her wrists, fingers overlapping as they encircled her forearms. Gently they tugged her hands away from her face, a thumb stroking her cheekbone. She twisted her head away from the touch, but it persisted, brushing her hair away from her face and tracing the line of her jaw.

"Open your eyes, love," he coaxed. She whimpered. His touch, his voice, his face―so real. Her memory of him had dimmed with the passing years, but the demon had sharpened it, and here he was, preserved perfectly. She caught a whiff of mint as he leaned over her and choked back a sob. "Ana, look at me. Please, baby, open your eyes and look at me."

"No," she gasped. "Please, not this! Not again! I can't take it! I can't take it!"

Not after the last time―she couldn't handle seeing another twisted version of him after the last time the demon pulled this skeleton out of her closet. The face she loved snarling contempt at her, the smirk on his lips as he turned the knife, the glistening of the fluorescent lights on the red coating his hands, which morphed into her own hands, shining with his blood as the demon guided her in sliding the blade between his ribs, the betrayal frozen on his face as he died in her arms again and again and again while the demon whispered in her ear all that she had to do to make it stop was _give up_ ―

The unmistakable pressure of lips against her temple quieted her mind. It preceded arms snaking around her and lifting her up to cradle her against a solid chest. Of their own accord―muscle memory, she thought―her hands clutched at his polo shirt―of course he'd be wearing a polo shirt; half his wardrobe consisted of polo shirts in varying colors―and her head tucked into the crook of his neck. She couldn't avoid his scent now; every shuddering inhale was accompanied by a dose of mint and coffee grounds, the musk of cologne and the hint of laundry detergent clinging to his shirt. One of his arms wound around her back to hold her to him. Lian grabbed his free hand. Fresh tears slid down at her cheeks at how good it felt to hold his hand again, for their fingers to slot together in just the right way, like they'd been made for each other.

She wouldn't be able to fight back if this was another of the demon's tricks.

"Oliver, Oliver, Oliver," she chanted his name into his collar, soaked now by her tears.

"I'm here, Ana, I'm here," he whispered, raising their tangled hands to his mouth and peppering kisses over the back of hers. "I'm _here_."

It was what he used to say to her in college, when he'd find her curled in the corner of her dorm room shaking after a call from her mother, pillows piled around her as if they could protect her from the sharp objects singing from across the room, or when she'd show up outside his apartment, stinking of booze, drunk off her ass and saying things she shouldn't. He'd gather her into his arms and promise he wouldn't leave, then when her tears dried up and so did the alcohol in her veins, they'd solve the problem together.

And he kept his promise: he didn't leave, he was always there, until he wasn't. Until he died. Until after hours at the airport, praying his flight was simply running late or had been rerouted, she got the call that they were so very sorry, but they needed her to fly to New York to identify his remains, that he'd never gotten on the plane because he'd been shot in the chest by a Chitauri.

Three years, and thinking about it hadn't gotten any easier.

Lian pulled away. She left their fingers intertwined, but she clambered out of his lap and scrubbed her tears off with her sleeve. She was clean, if only for this illusion. No blood, no bruises. No wound except for the one Oliver's death had inflicted upon her heart and no scars except for the ones Oliver knew.

When she had regulated her breathing, she told him, "This isn't real."

"But it could be," said Oliver, raking a hand through his sandy blond hair. He squeezed her hand. "You could stay, and it could be real."

She shook her head. The hopeful smile perched on his lips withered and died. "You're dead, Ollie. You're a memory."

"For better or for worse, remember?" He bit his lip. "You know I didn't want to leave you."

Lian pressed a kiss to his lips. Tears dripped down his cheeks. She kissed those too. "I know. And you know how much I want to be with you. How much I wanted to be with you, for better or worse." She closed her eyes, treasuring the moment, illusion or not. He squeezed her hand. She thought of Pietro holding her hands and reassuring her he and Wanda wouldn't leave without her. She squeezed back and opened her eyes. "I can't die yet, Ollie. I have people depending on me."

"My fiancé, the hero," he teased. His eyes glimmered with unshed tears. "I'm so proud of you. And I don't want you to stay. I want you to live. You have so much inside of you, Ana. You can't see it, but I can. I know you'll do right by these people depending on you."

Lian shook her head with fond exasperation. "That sounds like something you would say. Even though I haven't done anything."

"You will. I know it," he assured. Another hand squeeze. "You've stayed alive. You're not at the bottom of a bottle, either."

"Such success," she quipped, but clenched his hand. They shared a smile.

The lights flickered. The sudden cold emanating from Oliver stung Lian's fingers. It bit through her thin garments, but she refused to move away from him.

"I suppose that's my cue," he said. He hesitated, then kissed the top of her head and murmured, "I love you," into her hair.

His image dissipated, his grip on her hand fading until it disappeared and he was gone, leaving her alone with the chill. Lian closed her eyes to Oliver

* * *

and opened them to Pietro.

"You're crying," he noted.

Her back ached. Bracing her palms on the floor, arms trembling, she pushed herself into a sitting position, hunching over her knees. Her skin itched beneath the layer of dried blood; her sleeve was tacky with it when she attempted to dry her eyes. Back to normal, then. Oliver was a bittersweet dream. She couldn't tell if she hurt more or less after seeing him.

"Did you see the demon?" asked Pietro.

"In a way," she replied bitterly. The dream of Oliver was doubtlessly its work―who else's work could it be?―but it was strangely kind of it.

Pietro frowned at her. Concern furrowed his brow and frustration tinged his voice when he repeated, "'In a way'?"

Lian crawled over to Wanda's side and tapped her friend's hand. No change. Wanda had appeared dressed in costume. _All the better to save us in_ , she thought. The back of her neck prickled. _Since when is Wanda the Big Bad Wolf?_

"I dreamed of a memory, courtesy of the demon," she explained, focusing on Pietro rather than the dread pooling in her belly. (Or was it nausea?)

Pietro's alarm drained the color from his face. "You said memories can kill you in here," he hissed. His eyes darted over her, checking for injury.

Lian's mouth quirked up. "This memory would never hurt me," she reassured him. She glanced out of habit at her left hand, resting limply in her lap. Pietro followed her gaze. His eyes widened. She wore no ring, but he got it anyway.

"Are you―Are you _married_?" he sputtered.

"I was engaged," she corrected. She managed to keep her voice level. "Years ago. My fiancé died in the Incident."

Relief washed over Pietro's face, immediately replaced by guilty grief. (Strange behavior that she'd be concerned with another time, when her mind wasn't floating in an Oliver cloud.) "That's―sorry," he stammered.

"It was . . . good to see him again," she admitted, deciding the words were true as they left her mouth. Her heart felt lighter after seeing him, even if it stirred the old longing to the surface. Catching Pietro's skepticism, she added, "I know it wasn't really him, but everything was _right_ , and he always had this way of―of―If the world was flipped on its axis, he could turn it back around, you know? Or if he couldn't fix it, it'd still be okay." She let out a laugh. "The minute I met him, I knew I was going to marry that boy someday. I'm not joking. It wasn't lust, and it wasn't love yet, I just _knew_. Have you ever felt that way?"

He tilted his head, a funny look crossing his face. He mulled over his answer for a moment before responding, "No, I haven't." Thoughtful, he gazed at her for several seconds, that indecipherable expression still painting his features. Eventually he shifted and nodded to his sister. "Did she know?"

Lian recalled that conversation in the elevator going down to the Basement for the first time, when Wanda demanded to know why she shut down on certain topics. "No. She'll be pissed I told you before her," chuckled Lian. She raised her voice. "Wake up, Wanda! You're missing out on juicy gossip! I'm ready to spill all my secrets, so you better be awake to hear them! I doubt your brother can braid hair or will appreciate stuffing our faces with chocolate."

"I can braid hair!" he protested indignantly. "And why wouldn't I appreciate chocolate?"

Lian gawked at him. " _You_ can braid hair?"

"How could you think I wouldn't like chocolate? It's _chocolate_!" he ranted.

"I don't know, I just assumed you didn't have much of a sweet tooth because you've never mentioned it!"

"Well, yes, I can braid, and yes, I would appreciate stuffing my face with chocolate! Don't _assume_ things about me!"

Heat rushed to her cheeks. She clenched her fists. _He's not joking around anymore._ "Well, I didn't know!"

"You might have known if you hadn't abandoned our conversation to sleep!" he retorted.

There were no considered responses or intervals of thought, just their anger flaring between them as they blinded each other with its glare. Words tumbled forth to fill the empty spaces, glancing blows before the shattering strikes to come.

"What the hell! Are you _mad_ about that?" she demanded.

"Try frustrated!" he snapped.

"Are you seriously _frustrated_ I took a nap that you said you didn't mind me taking?"

They were lit fuses; they were two-liters that had been shaken up and now the lid was being taken off. They were water rushing down a clogged pipe, the pressure building and building until finally it burst and the water destroyed the debris, rushing unfettered down the tunnel.

"What _frustrates_ me is that one second everything is fine, and I start thinking you're a normal human being, and the next you're withdrawing and acting like―"

She interrupted, eyes smoldering but voice subzero, "Like I'm dying? Like I'm crazy? Maybe that's because I _am_ dying, and I _am_ crazy."

"You're _not_ crazy. And you're not dying. Your body is just changing to adapt to your enhancements," Pietro growled.

" _Enhancements_?"

The air was so thick you could cut it with a knife. Lian imagined crickets chirping as Pietro froze, the rant he'd been outlining detailing how Lian was not crazy fizzling on his tongue. Eyes widened, he approached the subject tentatively, like one might approach the lion's den. "Did I not catch you up on that?"

Her stony silence spoke for itself. Finally she replied scathingly, "I suppose it's my fault for not knowing that, too?"

Pietro grunted, dragging a hand through his hair and bracing himself for a long and complicated conversation whose questions he didn't know the answers to.

Where to even begin? He racked his brain, thoughts rattling around like loose change. Her story was told in parts and he hadn't been around for all of it, but he'd share what he knew. Maybe she could piece it together better than him. She was a hacker―perhaps she could hack her own code, solve this mystery and break them out.

"I don't know everything," he warned. She clenched her jaw, refraining from commenting. He appreciated that. "Wanda could explain it in more detail," he added, peeking at his sister. _Now would be an extra beneficial time to wake up, sis_. Would Lian believe it if he slumped to the ground and pretended to be unconscious too?

"Pietro, just spit it out," Lian said. She kicked him in the shin. A fraction of the tension in his shoulders dissipated. Despite their fight, they still sat close enough together she could kick him.

He started with a question. "Do you remember passing out on Blake's watch?"

"That's about the last thing I remember before waking up to you and Wanda in my hospital room," she confirmed.

Good. He didn't understand what triggered that event if he had needed to explain it. Dodged a bullet. Pietro winced. Not a good time to be thinking about bullets.

Clearing his throat, he began, "When you passed out, you ended up here. Wanda had gotten a message that you'd relapsed, so she reached out with her mind to you. From what I've heard, the pull was too strong and she got sucked in here, trapped, witnessing the demon torture you―"

Lian's head snapped up, body jerking in a quick-snap shudder. Her gaze had fixed to the floor while she listened, face pinched in concentration. Her hands spasmed, clenching and unclenching wildly, one in her lap, the other flattened against the floor, clawing at it when she could, as if trying to get a grip on it. She mumbled, turning a set of words over and over in her mouth.

" _she was here she was here she was here she was here_ _she was here she was here_ "

Pietro leaned forward to hear but withdrew as soon as the repeated phrase became intelligible. He bumped her hip with his foot, shifting his leg closer to the hand on the floor.

"Lian," he said. He jostled her rigid forearm, dislodging her hand from where it now ground into the floor. Pietro nudged her loose fingers until they wrapped around his calf.

Her litany faded into the barest movement of lips and hiss of breath, then she shut her eyes and was silent. She reached up with the hand not attached to his leg and brushed hair out of her face. She had stopped clenching her fist and unclenching it; a tremble replaced the motion. He waited till she made eye contact with him, then continued.

"She said while she was in there, she recognized this magic―the Scepter. Said she'd know its power anywhere. I don't know how she escaped this―" he gestured to the circular chamber around them "―but her and Clint had a heart to heart about it and marched up to the med bay to wait to see you. You were in back to back surgeries for hours, Lian, while they tried to save you. Clint wrangled me into the whole scheme during that period.

"Anyway, Wanda recognized the Scepter's power. She and Computer Nerd came up with this theory that boils down to S.H.I.E.L.D. being liars once again: at some point during your coma you were in H.Y.D.R.A.'s hands and they experimented on you with the Scepter, same as me and Wanda. Blake started working on hacking into your file, which is apparently super restricted, in order to prove they were right. The doctors are strict, so they would never let Wanda try to save you with her powers based on a _theory_. I guess Clint's clearance isn't high enough for your file; he had no idea what was going on, he called you Deeann once, can you believe that? And your eyes were supposedly glowing when you passed out, I forgot about that. Blake ended up failing. Then when Wanda and I visited you so Wanda could 'read' you, looking for more signatures of the Scepter, we just upset you and Wanda accidentally focused on my mind instead of yours. Wanda was pretty certain though from her original ride on the merry-go-round, and your injuries matched what we remembered from our transition. We just didn't know when or how you were in H.Y.D.R.A.'s hands or why your body was reacting to the exposure so late. Wanda worried you may not pull through, among other things. The doctors scared her with their medical diagnosis, which lacked the foreknowledge of our diagnosis. Not to mention you were in here." He hesitated, though he doubted Lian could tell, then added, "She kept going on about ruining her second chance. I don't know what that means."

Lian scoffed, interrupting him consciously for the first time. Her patience impressed him; he hadn't expected it from her. She probably noticed his obvious struggling and pitied him enough to not drown him in questions.

"Second chance? Pietro, this is all about saving you. She couldn't save you. This is her opportunity to right that wrong, even the score. She couldn't save you, so she was going to try to save me," said Lian, tugging on the hem of his pants. Her voice cracked on 'save me'.

"She did save me," Pietro said. He poked his own chest. "I'm alive."

Lian closed her eyes for ten seconds. He counted. Ten long seconds. She reopened them at eleven. "You were dead," she deadpanned. "That is the point here. You died. I am not the one who is supposed to be doing the explaining."

"Right, right." He gathered the rest of the threads he planned on spinning into the tale. "Wanda stormed off. Clint, Blake, and I all got drunk. Clint created this drunken plan to break you out of the infirmary. It wasn't like the fancy equipment was doing you any good. We were drunk, and I wanted to be back on Wanda's good side. It . . . seemed like a good idea at the time." He cringed. "Blake acted as a diversion while Clint and I snuck inside. That's when it got weird."

" _That's_ when it got weird?"

He ignored her input. "I heard voices whispering to me from down a hallway. I remember they said my name. They sounded urgent. There was this tugging in my gut―I can't describe it, but it pulled me to a door, and I saw you inside under the knife. There was a blue light, like an aura. It sputtered and pulsed until it exploded, sending a wave of energy rushing out everywhere. The next thing I knew, I woke up here."

Lian processed. He waited. She processed. He waited.

She said, "So I'm a H.Y.D.R.A. experiment, not dying according to you and on the brink of death according to Wanda and practically dead according to the medical staff. No one understands fully what's going on with me, physically or mentally, but it's beyond just my own condition now since you've taken up residence in my head. My body's in rough shape that's apparently required several surgeries to fix? We also have no idea what's going on in the real world."

"Yes." Nodding along as she summarized, he shook his head at the last comment. "I am not going to worry about the real world when I'm trapped in someone else's head with their split personality―"

"Split personality? You think the demon is just―what? My alter ego?" demanded Lian. She lifted her hand off his leg as if disgusted to touch him. He'd become accustomed to the weight of it resting on his shin, the pressure of her fingers squeezing, the pricks of her nails digging through the cloth of his pants. He'd hardly noticed it, but now that it was gone, he felt its absence, not so much on his leg as in the ache in his chest.

The implications of his words hit him then. "No, I didn't mean that. I don't know why I said 'split personality'. I'm sorry," he apologized.

Lian ignored him, continuing, "You've seen it. How could you think it was part of me? How could you think it was _me_? How―"

"Lian!" He grabbed her shoulders. "I don't. I don't think it's you."

She was quiet.

"Lian?"

She looked up at him, widening eyes round and full of undiluted fear. "What if it _is_?"

" _It's not._ " His own adamance confused him, but the certainty cemented itself in his mind. "Lian, the demon is not part of you. We'll get it out of your head, just like we'll get Wanda and me out, just like we'll get you out of this torture chamber."

His reassurances failed to reassure her. "How? We can't even wake Wanda up!"

"Have hope―"

Lian shot to her feet, exclaiming hysterically, " _Have hope?_ I am _done_ with hope! I accepted that I was going to die. I embraced it. Anything to get away from the demon. Then the two of you showed up, parading your hope around on a silver platter until I believed in it." She dragged the heel of her hand across her cheek, but more tears fell to replace the ones she wiped away. Pietro rose to placate her. She snarled in his face, "But your silver platter, your hope, was just more pyrite."

" _You are not going to die!_ Your body is alive and well!" he insisted.

She scoffed, "Last time I was awake I was crying blood!"

"It's part of the process!" snapped Pietro.

Her sharp retort reminded him that Tony Stark had suggested she could be his daughter. "What process? The process of dying?"

He gritted his teeth. "The enhancements."

She had the nerve to roll her eyes. "Right, those. The Nazi enhancements that Wanda has no proof of being legitimate besides a feeling."

He darted forward, rage directing his feet, and in a blink, they were nose to nose. "Wanda and I were the _only ones_ to survive the experiments. Countless people died. You should count yourself lucky that somehow you're alive," he hissed. The red glare of anger faded, leaving behind her wide eyes below him and his harsh panting. Too close. Suddenly it wasn't Lian; it was Clint. His hand vibrating as he moved it in slow motion toward―

 _No. Not real_.

Pietro stumbled backwards and slammed into the opposite wall, his speed carrying him farther than he intended.

His hands, his _hands_.

They were solid.

Pietro slid to the floor. Across the room, Lian did the same. Time passed. Seconds, minutes, hour, days, they couldn't tell. It was its own sort of torture. It felt like an eternity before Lian piped up tentatively, "Is that why Wanda was so worried about me pulling through?"

Pietro sighed and answered hoarsely, "One of the reasons. We don't know anything about your time with H.Y.D.R.A., for one being the amount of exposure to the Scepter you had, which can affect your survival. And . . . the demon, Lian. What if they were behind it? You weren't yourself when you first woke up until I hit you in the head―they called it cognitive recalibration. That's what snapped Clint out of his mind control―mind control inflicted on him by that damn Scepter. We don't know what they've done to you, especially to your head."

She nodded, used the wall behind her to clamber to her feet, stretched, then crossed the distance, passing Wanda, and seated herself next to him. Lian leaned her head on his shoulder.

He glanced down at his hands in his lap. "Are we not going to talk about me a-assaulting you?" he asked quietly.

"No, we will. That―That was not okay, Pietro, for you to try to intimidate me like that. You can't just loom over me to make your point. Literally or figuratively."

"I'm sorry." Pietro swallowed. "You…you probably shouldn't be so close to me if I can't control myself. You could get hurt."

Lian scoffed. "You wouldn't hurt me." She added, "But don't take this as a…a psychological reward, like crossing a line equals me cuddling with you. This is for my benefit. You know, the whole total isolation thing. It doesn't mean I've completely forgiven you for acting like such a dick." She shuddered.

"What _does_ it mean?" He remained focused on his solid hands. Lian picked up his left and slotted her fingers between his. _Trust_. Her thumb traced the letters on the back of his hand.

"It means I've acknowledged I have my demons and you have yours. Yours just don't manifest like mine do," she said, offering him a smile as a peace treaty. He returned one of his own in exchange.

"By the way, what's pyrite?" he asked.

"It's a name for fool's gold," explained Lian.

"Oh." He squeezed her hand, then lifted their joined hands up to eye level. "This isn't fool's gold, Lian. This is real. My hope is real."

He let their hands drop. Lian said nothing, but her fingers tightened around his.


	19. Part I: Chapter Eighteen

**WARNING: character referred to as a demon, death, blood**

 **Chapter Eighteen**

* * *

Lian shot up, lifting her cheek from where it was pillowed on a _very_ comfortable chest.

"Pietro! Pietro, wake up!" She twisted, grabbing his shoulder and shaking him. His chin jumped where it had dropped onto his chest in sleep. "I thought of something: if my body has powers, shouldn't my mind too? You have your speed here, so why don't I have whatever enhancement I've got out there in the real world?"

His eyes remained closed, head lax and drooping. She slugged his shoulder. "Come on, wake up. This could be our ticket out of here."

Nothing. Not even a snore.

Her shoulders tensed, foreboding and goosebumps crawling up her spine. "Pietro?"

 _Check his pulse_.

Hands shaking, she reached for his neck, felt around. She couldn't find it. _My hands are just shaky, that's all._ Lian slid her hand down, settling it over his chest. She waited for the strong thump of his heart against her palm, but all she felt was fabric and a cold claw gripping her heart. Lian yanked up his shirt, and she couldn't even appreciate the view, too frenzied trying to find a heartbeat—

That wasn't there.

 _He's dead._

"Pietro, please," she fisted a handful of his shirt, " _please_."

 _He's dead and it's because of you._

 _You._

 _You killed him._

 _That's your enhancement, Lian._

 _You drain life away._

 _You're a killer._

"No, no, it wasn't me," Lian gasped, scrambling away from Pietro's corpse. She covered her ears as if that could keep the voices out. "It was the demon! It wasn't me!"

 _But he wouldn't be here if it wasn't for you. The demon is your burden to bear, is it not?_

Lian shook her head, curling up into a ball. She pressed her forehead to her knees, rocking back and forth. "No, no. This isn't—this isn't real. He's not dead. _He's not dead._ He can't be. He _told_ me he wasn't going to leave me."

 _He lied._

"This—isn't—real," her voice, shrill as she choked out words between sobs, faded.

A hand, as pale and cold as ice, cupped her face. The chill of the long slender fingers as they brushed away her tears was welcome on her hot and flushed cheeks. Lian pried her eyes open, not daring to hope, letting her face be tilted up at the hand's gentle nudge.

Her own face looked down on her. "Looks like it's just you and me again." The demon bent and wrapped its arms around her, enfolding her into a sheltering embrace like its arms were the only thing holding Lian together.

* * *

When Pietro awoke, it was to a hand smoothing back his hair like his mother had done when he was small, and he leaned into the touch. Lian must have woken before him; the familiar weight of her draped across his chest had vanished. He reached up for the hand still carding through his hair, tangling those delicate thin fingers with his own—except this hand wasn't fine-boned and freezing with bitten nails, and no tremor lived in it.

This was not Lian's hand.

His eyes snapped open, body jerking up, using the grip he had on the stranger's hand to twist their arm until a cry of pain stopped him in his tracks.

"Wanda?" he whispered, releasing his sister's arm from the painful hold to tackle her in a hug.

"Pietro," she sighed.

He lifted his face from where he'd buried it in her hair, searching over her shoulder for a redhead with a no doubt beaming smile. "Lian, why didn't you—" His question trailed off when his eyes found no other occupants of the room.

He drew back to look at his twin, holding her by the shoulders as he examined her. She wore her Scarlet Witch gear, just as she had when they'd found her atop the hill of corpses. Shadows ringed her eyes; a relieved smile graced her mouth. She didn't look dissimilar to how she had in the waiting room, though it felt like ages had passed since then. Wanda looked real enough, but he remembered how real the bodies in the torture chamber had looked too.

"Where's Lian?" he asked finally.

Wanda inhaled sharply, dropping her gaze when she said, "Not here."

"What do you mean by 'not here'?" Pietro persisted. He clambered to his feet, taking the two steps forward that brought him to one of the four featureless walls of the square room. He ran his hands across its surface: sleek steel, emitting a kind of bioluminescent light that illuminated the space.

Wanda got to her feet behind him. "You showed up here. Lian wasn't with you. Are you saying the two of you were together?"

Pietro felt for a crevice, a seam, anything in the walls he could use for leverage or a handhold. Backing up, he tried to run up the wall, but there wasn't enough room and he merely slammed into it. No exit or entrance, just like Lian's torture chamber. Her torture chamber that she now occupied _alone_.

 _She probably thinks I wasn't real,_ Pietro mourned. _She said I'd disappear when she got attached to me, and lo and behold._

He drove his fist into the wall. It didn't cause any damage except to his hand, but it released a fraction of his anger, so he did it again, and again, and again, until Wanda reached his side and wound her arms around him.

"Ssh," she soothed. "We'll get out of here, brother. We will."

Pietro leaned forward to rest his forehead against the wall. Lian's face swam behind his eyes. "I'm not worried about _us_."

* * *

"Do you want to get out of here?" the demon asked softly.

Lian lifted her head. She dragged the heel of her hand beneath her eyes, swiping away the tears that pooled in the hollows of her sunken cheekbones. She'd deteriorated rapidly since Pietro's death, like he was the life in her, and now that he was gone the life was gone as well. Blood smeared on her cheek where she wiped away the tears. It stained her hands now, and if she were to look in the mirror she wouldn't be able to tell if it was her or the demon looking back.

"I'm dying either way, aren't I?" she said flatly. "Dying here, dying there—what does it matter if I die in my mind first?"

The demon clasped her hands, drawing her to her feet. "Your fragile shell is dying," she— _it_ , Lian reminded herself—corrected, eyes burning as they locked with Lian's. Her hands in Lian's were the only thing holding her up. "You will become something far greater than this weak humanity once you break free of it."

Lian shook her head. "You want to kill me. Why convince me to live?"

The demon gripped her by her shoulders now, leaning closer. The red of her hair was almost painful to look at, blazing as if it was a real flame. "You are dying—the weakness in you is burning away. You shall be reborn stronger, brighter—this has been my whole goal, Lian, to kill the weakness. I am your strength, and _I am succeeding._ You will become what you were _always meant to be_."

The fire in the eyes of the girl standing across from her blinded her, filling her vision, filling her veins. She dropped to her knees, buckled by the agony of burning.

"What do I do?" she gasped. "What do I do to break free?"

She could not see them, the hands that lifted her from her belly to her knees, but she knew they must be there, infusing strength into her new bones as the brittle ones that had sustained her before crumbled away, until she could support herself, rising up from the crouch. She felt a cracking in her chest. As she stood she shed the fragile skin, the fire in her veins singing now, singing a song of ascension. Her vision cleared, and the sharp clarity would have hurt if not for the strength spreading through her. _What do I do_ she had asked. It was so simple. She marveled at how blind she had been before, for it was so clear now. So obvious what she had to do. She cast off the last of that weakness that resided over her mind, a flimsy wall surrounding that pure core of being that pulsed when she drew on it. It flooded through her, raw power, and with it, she _Jumped_ , tearing through this pathetic prison, tearing through fear and pain and blood and death, to light.

* * *

Flames licked the walls of the chamber. Waves of heat washed over them. Plumes of acrid smoke spiraled toward the ceiling, pressing thick black tendrils to it like plants reaching for sunlight.

Pietro knelt over Wanda, shielding her from the fire. He held the collar of his shirt over his nose and mouth, but his lungs still burned, eyes stinging.

Wanda coughed. She struggled up to her knees, lifting her sooty hands. Her fingers flickered as she wheezed, and the magic dissipated with a rattling gasp. "The smoke—" she choked out.

Pietro glanced toward the nearest flames, towering over him by a good ten feet. "If I could run—"

"You'd only fan the flames at this point," Wanda croaked. She reached for his hand. "Brother."

"Sister," he started to say, but the room exploded with white light.

* * *

Wanda jolted up, sucking in air like she was dying—she had been dying—and now?

The ceaseless drone of machinery surrounded her. Faces hovered above her own: Steve, mouth and forehead lined with concern; Sam, eyes as wide as the goggles hanging around his neck; and Clint, relief washing over him, lips quirking up.

"What happened?" she said, expecting her voice to emerge a faint whisper, a croak, but while her throat was dry it wasn't scalded, and her voice came out hoarse but strong.

"That's what we were going to ask you," Clint said.

A clatter behind them alerted Wanda to the presence of others in the room. She craned her neck, peeking between Steve and Sam. A blur of white hair toppled over a table on the opposite side of the room. _Pietro._

He made it out of the fiery room too.

She pushed herself up, anticipating his fussing. The trio of men parted, revealing a table in the middle. Pietro solidified into vision, but it wasn't her he was fussing over—it was the body on the middle table, deathly-pale, a halo of fire encircling her face. No, not fire—red hair, _Lian._ Pietro cupped her face, mouth shaping words, red strands spilling over his fingers as he lifted her up, cradling her to his chest.

Clint moved over to him. "Pete, stop, she's gone—"

 _Gone._

 _No._

Wanda slid her legs over the edge of the table, shoving past Steve's cautioning arms. Her bare feet touched the floor as the hair on her arms stood up, skin prickling with energy. Her toes slipped on the tile. She could see the tips of Lian's fingers swinging free, see a blue energy gathering beneath her skin, her hand starting to glow—

Pietro yelled as Lian's eyes snapped open. A shockwave erupted from her body, sending him flying across the room. He slammed into the wall, fissures arcing out from his body's impact. Wanda grabbed onto the table, managing to catch herself when the wave hit her, lifting her gaze in time to catch Lian lighting up like a star before she disappeared into thin air. Wanda blinked. Lian was gone, the ground where she had stood scorched, air wavering like a heat mirage.

* * *

 **END OF PART I**

* * *

 **Can anyone else believe this thing is two years old today? Thanks for sticking with it, especially those of you who have been here since the beginning. Happy 4th to my American readers and a happy Tuesday to everyone else!**


	20. Part II: Chapter Nineteen

**WARNING: depiction of blood, grief, and weight loss; death mention; alcohol**

 **Part II: In Which Lian is Dead**

* * *

 **Chapter Nineteen**

* * *

In Lian's dreams, she was at her grandparents' house in Scotland, the modest little abode where her father had been raised and she'd spent half her childhood. It was as idyllic as it ever was, in vibrant colors of green and blue with splotches of red, yellow, and purple, all soothed by an undertone of gray. The branches of the tree she'd spent hours in waved hello as a breeze whistled through them. Curled amber leaves piled at its base. The trimmed grass struggled to retain its green color beneath a light dusting of frost. Her grandmother's meticulously tended garden was empty but for a few stakes still twined with withered vines. Two sets of footprints led from the front porch down the walk to the mailbox and back. In the dream she stumbled forward into them, her small feet dwarfed by the large prints belonging to her grandfather.

Lian tried to lift her head. Her vision swam before steadying, and she peered at the front door, reading the house number inscribed on a plaque beside it. The numbers floated off the plaque toward her, changing shape, growing into the silhouettes of two people. Faintly she heard shouting, the slamming of doors, and then the two people came closer. She saw her grandparents, her grandmother's hands clasped to her mouth and her grandfather reaching out to her, mouth shaping words she couldn't hear or understand.

Lian stepped forward, but her ankles rolled, sending her knees slamming into the pavement. Her arms hung at her sides like limp noodles, too weak to catch her, and her chin bounced off the ground. Fire raced through her jaw. She pressed her cheek to the sidewalk to ease some of the burn. It was only then that she became conscious of the cold biting her skin, biting her bones, and of the burnt smell on the air singeing her nostrils. Her head lolled to the side, red hair spilling across the snow like blood. Not _like_ blood―she coughed, and blood dribbled out of her mouth to stain the ground. Her grandmother's face hovered above hers, her faded and white-streaked McKinnis red hair swinging free from its customary knot. It was too much red. She closed her eyes.

 _Lian, Lian, open your eyes. Open your eyes, Lian._

The voice broke through the fog of her head, and she peeled open her eyes to see her grandparents replaced by Wanda and Pietro. Pietro's hair was the color of the snow behind him, his eyes the pale blue of the winter sky. His bitten lips were as red as the blood on Lian's mouth. She expected it to be Wanda's voice calling out for her, but instead it was Pietro's saying, "Stay with us, Lian. Stay awake. We need you, we need you, stay _alive_."

That's how she knew it was a dream, though it felt _so real._

Her eyelids grew heavy. They slipped shut, and she couldn't pry them open this time.

 _I'm sorry,_ she thought to her friends as the darkness rose up around her. _I'm sorry I've failed you again._

* * *

"LIAN! _LIAN_!"

Wanda wrapped her arms around her brother, but he didn't notice, still staring at the place where Lian had been with growing horror, shouting her name with his gone-hoarse voice. Soon it would break, and he would not be able to speak.

"Ssh, ssh," Wanda soothed, tucking his head under her chin. She pressed her hot cheek to his hair. She'd had to process Lian's disappearance quickly and hide her own grief in order to tend to Pietro. He'd recovered from the blast faster than all of them―physically, at least.

When Wanda had blinked the spots from her vision, she'd seen him standing poised to catch Lian, arms empty. She'd seen the realization dawn over his face like a sun reluctant to shine, had seen him scan the room for her, and when he couldn't find her, she'd seen him drop to his knees like a stone.

Around them was a flurry of activity, but it seemed everyone knew better than to approach the twins. They were the eye of the hurricane; even the scientists who'd been called in gave them a wide berth despite their eager equipment and hungry eyes. Wanda glanced up. Oh. Steve was keeping them at bay, standing guard, preventing anyone from getting too close. He nodded at her, and she turned back to her brother.

Pietro reached out, his fingers brushing the scorch mark on the floor. "Where are you?" he whispered. "Where did you go?"

Wanda felt her already broken heart shatter.

He pressed his palm to the biggest mark. "I'll find you. I promised I wouldn't leave you. I'll find you."

 _Oh no_. "Pietro." He didn't look up, just continued tracing the divots in the floor. "Pietro, she's gone. Stop it. She's _dead_ ―"

His head snapped up. His eyes burned with blue flame. Wanda found herself recoiling from the heat in his gaze. "She _isn't_. She's alive. Can't you feel her?" He fisted his shirt in his hand over his heart. "Wanda, I know she's alive. I know it."

She cupped her fingers around his. "I can't feel her, Pietro."

His conviction didn't waver. "She's too far away for you to feel."

Wanda sighed. "Yes, she's passed beyond life."

Pietro shook his head, dragging a hand through his hair. "You're not understanding. Do you remember what her profile said, when Hill first showed it to us?"

Something in her told her to humor him, so she envisioned that tablet, seeing Lian's picture for the first time and hearing her story. She looked so different then, and Wanda suspected it wasn't just looks: Lian had been a different person when that picture had been taken than the Lian that Wanda had come to know. She remembered a caption that they'd both thought was odd. What had it been?

"Jumper," she remembered.

Pietro grinned. "Yes, Jumper. Jumper, like you are Scarlet Witch. It wasn't a random codename―it's her _enhancement_. She _jumps_ from place to place― _teleportation_. She's out there somewhere, right now." He stood. "And we―I―have to find her."

"Piet―" she started, but he was already gone, gone in a blur of silver, running all over the earth.

* * *

Tony was already on his way to New York when he got the call.

Friday had announced the facility was trying to contact him, and he had instructed her to take the call while he grabbed his bag from the car he'd ridden to the airport in. The bag contained his progress in decrypting the files Lian sent him. He intended to continue working on it during the plane ride, but the sudden sick feeling in his stomach warned him the trip might not be so calm.

"Sir, Captain Rogers insisted on speaking to you directly," Friday droned in his ear.

Tony closed his eyes, one foot in the plane. He stepped inside, leaning heavily against the wall as if his body knew before he did what the news would be. "Put him through."

Steve's voice drowned out the sounds of the flight attendants and pilots bustling around him, filling his head and ears with the man's concerned tone. He sounded exhausted, and he used the voice he had when he spoke of lost comrades in his army days. "Tony," he said, then straight to the point like ripping off a bandaid, "Lian is dead."

Tony slid to the floor. Steve was saying his name, but his throat clogged up with all the words unsaid. He crawled to the cabin and found a bottle. He wrestled it open. The burn cleared his throat, cleared his eyes, replaced the hollow cold in his chest.

"Steve," he said, but the burn had cleared away Steve's voice too.

* * *

Lian awoke to light streaming through flowery curtains and soft sheets. Warmth surrounded her, and someone's sweaty hand gripped hers. Blinking blearily, she looked to the side. The room gradually came into focus. It sparked dim memory that brightened the longer she surveyed the space. An oak dresser dominated the wall opposite her, a mirror whose ornate frame was carved with roses hanging above it. To the right was the source of the light, a large rectangular window whose flower-patterned drapery did little to block the sunshine. She lay on a full-size bed, sheets drawn over her, and her mind still worked to chase away the last dregs of the best sleep she'd gotten in months.

Even though she was in her grandparents' guest room, she still expected to find Pietro holding her hand when she turned her head.

Instead she met the warm brown gaze of her father.

"Dad?" she croaked. "Is that you under that beard?"

His hand tightened around hers, and then he threw his head back and laughed. Lian pushed herself up in time to meet his hug with one of her own. She buried her face in his neck, breathing in his dad scent that she'd grown up smelling. He needed a haircut, and his auburn curls tickled her nose. She moved her face away, but not much, keeping her arms wrapped around him with a strength she hadn't felt since―since― _Since I was a child, probably,_ she thought. A child strong in love and happiness who wasn't afraid to venture beyond their computer screen, who could decipher the world without looking at it through code.

He started to pull away, but she whimpered and clung to him. He was warm and solid and _here_ , and she hadn't seen her family in almost a year except for the demon's death illusions. "I love you so much, Dad," she whispered.

She felt something wet drip onto her shoulder. She drew back. Tears streamed down her father's cheeks, some sliding into the beard and others skipping over it to land on her. Her own eyes started to water at the sight. What had the Avengers told them of her condition? Had they said she was dying?

"Dad, please don't cry," she murmured, wiping his tears away. He closed his eyes at her touch. "Daddy."

He opened his eyes. "I never thought I'd hear that again," he choked out.

She frowned. "You mean when I was in the coma?"

"Coma?" He shook his head. "Honey, they told us you―" His voice cracked. Lian felt herself falling from a great height. He finished, "You died."

 _"What?"_

His eyes dropped, shoulders shaking. When he forced them back up to meet hers, tears gathered on the lids. "Ana, you died almost nine months ago. During the accident at the lab. There weren't even any remains left for us to identify. _Nothing_ left of anyone outside the control room."

 _Nothing left because they took me._ Her skin itched. She wanted to claw it off. Claw off and burn whatever _S.H.I.E.L.D._ had touched. It had all been one big _lie_ to keep her in line. They must have laughed when she fell for it. Hill must have been so amused by their little deal. _They never planned on letting me contact anyone_.

The itching turned to a buzzing turned to a ringing in her ears. Static rippled across her skin. Hair stood on end, fingers twitched. They would pay. They would pay for their lies and their tests and all the time they stole from her. Every last one of them. Everyone―

 _Not Pietro._

The whisper rose above the static, caressing over every raw nerve and open wound. In its path the anger dissipated, the static dispersed, the ringing faded. _Nothing left._

Empty inside, she turned outside. Lian sat back, taking in her father's appearance for a second, critical time. There were crow's feet around his exhausted eyes, and the clothes she'd assumed were too big were only baggy because he had lost weight. The cloth draped loose and flat over diminished shoulders, gaping around skinny arms. It billowed over his chest and stomach even though he'd tucked the front into his pants, no muscle to stretch over or fat to cling to. His hands, resting on the coverlet, trembled with the telltale signs of too much caffeine. His surgeon hands that had always been steady, shaking because of her. Because of what her "death" had done to him. _His hands_ ―

Lacked a wedding ring.

"Dad," she gasped, touching the pale band on his finger where the ring usually sat, "did you and Mom―?"

He sighed, his hands folding into fists. "It wasn't your fault, kiddo. It was a long time coming. Our marriage―had never been the same since the affair."

He hadn't talked about Mila's affair outright since Lian had been fifteen and he'd promised he would always love her and her sisters more than anything else. Lian's arms had been a roadmap of scars documenting their journey to America, and Giselle couldn't see through her tears as she asked why Mama hadn't loved them enough. Dad hadn't let them go all night.

They referred to Mila's affair as "it" or "you know what" after that if they spoke of it at all, even when Mila came back and tried to get them to all share their feelings "in order to clear the air".

"Have you been living with Gran and Grandad?" Lian asked.

The door creaked open. Gran appeared on the threshold, bearing a tray laden with mugs of tea and a tureen of soup. Dad stacked pillows behind Lian's back as the old woman bustled into the room, ladling the soup into bowls and distributing tea. Grandad limped in behind her, heading straight for Lian with her father's smile. While her father had gone for the Beard of Grief, Grandad had shaved his off in mourning. Lian mourned for the loss of it.

"Sleeping Beauty's finally awoken," Grandad teased. A yawn escaped her. He laughed. "Three days isn't enough for you?"

 _"Three days?"_

Grandad smoothed back her hair. "You needed rest. And now you need soup." Which was as good an explanation as any.

"No, I haven't been living with them," her father answered her earlier question, once Grandad released her and Gran served the soup. "I flew up to celebrate Gran's birthday."

Lian paused, the spoon halfway to her mouth. "Gran's birthday? Gran's birthday is in November."

"Oh, love, it is November," Gran said softly, cupping her cheek. "November of 2015."

Lian set down her spoon. She stared into the broth. _Pay for the time they stole from me_. At least it was still the same year. "I've missed so much."

Grandad cleared his throat. "Ana, what happened?"

"Where do I start?" Lian laughed without humor. "Apparently they told you I was dead."

Gran's lips parted; before she could speak, she was interrupted by a pounding on the front door. Grandad's brow furrowed. "Ignore it," Gran huffed, "and maybe they'll go away."

Lian relaxed and settled back against the pillow. She hadn't realized how much she'd tensed at the noise.

They did not go away. Finally Dad groaned and headed out of the room. Lian held her breath. Grandad, as if sharing her wariness, hushed Gran when she started to complain. Muffled noises filtered through the hallway. Dread pooled in her stomach. Lian swung her legs out of bed. Her feet touched the floor just as her father called her name from the front door. "Ana! Come here!"

She darted out into the hall, ignoring Gran's protests. She had a clear view of the front door from here, and the men standing at the open door had a free view of her. She looked past her father to the visitor, and her heart skipped a beat. She was moving forward before she could stop to think about it, not that she would have done anything else _had_ she thought about it.

The doorframe was holding Pietro up, his messy hair the color of snow, just as it had been in the dream―or where her arrival at her grandparents' had faded into dream. He looked dead on his feet, requiring the support of the house to even remain standing, yet when his eyes lighted on her running toward him he lifted his arms, opening them for her.

She crashed into him, and they fit together as they had in the chamber, but better, because here Lian wasn't breakable and dying and the only thing they feared was losing each other again.

"I found you," he whispered into her hair. "I found you."


	21. Part II: Chapter Twenty

**WARNING: gun, blood mention**

* * *

 **Chapter Twenty**

* * *

As much as he loved Tony, Happy was considering finding employment elsewhere after the punk with super speed took the door off its hinges running inside. Maybe he could permanently transfer to the maintenance crew. He had plenty of experience piecing Tony back together. Building upkeep would be like a day in the spa compared to Stark sensibilities.

Happy waited for the blur to solidify. He tracked it in his peripheral vision, a silver streak that zigzagged throughout the building.

Looking for something.

Finally it stilled, a man blinking into form before his eyes. Old adrenaline pumped through Happy's system as he levelled his gun in the kid's direction.

"Hands up!" he barked.

The kid twitched, the edges of his body smearing before defining into clear, hard lines. Great. Not only was he faster than Happy's aunt Merle after the stuffing at Thanksgiving dinner, but he was just as built as damn Captain America.

The kid slowly lifted his arms, holding his hands at head height. Happy considered the tense stance, the wide eyes focused entirely on the gun. He considered his own gut, weighed the push and pull of his instincts. This kid could been a hell of a lot more dangerous than Killian ever was if he wanted to be. Happy sensed he didn't.

With a sigh, he flicked the safety back on and holstered his weapon at his belt. Immediately the kid relaxed, the fear melting out of his posture as he bounced on his feet, remaining in place even as his eyes darted all over. Happy crossed the room toward him, cataloging his face and trying to match it to one of Tony's Super Friends or even trace a resemblance to any of the dozens of women Happy had to escort off the premises over the years. Happy pegged him as mid-twenties. Too old to be Tony's, at least Happy hoped, and almost too young to be Howard's. If Howard had been getting it on with a pacemaker. Some women liked the silver fox look. Happy tossed that idea aside. If there was one thing Tony and Howard always agreed on, it was their love for Maria.

"Tony Stark―" the kid started, words wrapped in a heavy accent.

"―isn't here," Happy interrupted.

"Then _where is he_?"

The kid blurred again. Happy waited for him to settle down.

"Why don't you tell me who you are, first."

"MynameisPietroMaximoffmysisterisWandaMaximoffshe'sanAvengerandI'mhereforStarkbecausehe'stheonlyonewhowillbelieveme―"

"Hey! HEY! Slow down, I can't understand a word you're saying. You sound like Merle's kids after their fifth pudding, jeez." Happy rubbed his temples.

The building's security detail wasn't worth their paycheck anyway. Might as well fire the lot and replace them with drones. Happy could get a nice, calm, quiet job watering Pepper's ferns, defending the plants against flies.

"This is about Lian!" the kid exploded. "She's alive and everyone else thinks she's dead and I need Stark to figure out where she is!"

 _Lian?_ All the intruders and excitement in the world couldn't replace the noise supplied by Lian McKinnis. He'd never ignore her again if he could just hear her rattle off their coffee orders before darting out on a caffeine run one more time. The Tower wasn't the same without her chatter, and neither was Pepper without her ginger mini me.

It was just _too_ quiet. Forget the plant job. He'd never had a green thumb and would probably kill them all immediately.

"Lian? Where is she?" Happy reached for his radio. He better get Pepper down here.

"I DON'T KNOW THAT'S WHY I NEED STARK."

Was it really too quiet? Maybe he could learn to garden.

Happy replaced the radio. "Does Tony know where she is?"

The kid fisted his hands in his white hair. "He probably has a better idea than I do where she would go if she'd just escaped imprisonment and disappeared. Wherever she felt _safe_ ―"

Happy scoffed, "That's easy. Lian would feel safest at her grandparents' house. Her dad's family. In Scotland. They're the only real home she knows."

" _Scotland?_ Why the hell not," the kid muttered. He released his hair, smoothing it back, and took a few controlled breaths. There was a sheen of sweat coating his skin Happy didn't notice before. "Uh, thanks . . ."

"Happy Hogan," he supplied, sticking out his hand. "You think you can find Lian, kid?"

He rolled his eyes. "My name is Pietro Maximoff. I'm not a kid," he huffed, "and yes, I do."

Happy smirked. "Then godspeed, kid."

"You're cheesier than Lian," _Pietro_ groaned, before he was gone in a silver blur and rush of wind.

* * *

A side effect of being dead that no one really considered was how few opportunities you had to network.

Pietro leaned against a tree in Central Park and tapped his thumb idly on the screen of the basic smartphone he'd swiped from a convenience store across the city. He kicked at the carpet of leaves beneath his feet, hoping the number of someone he could call would be hidden beneath them.

He hated to admit it, but it was time to face the facts. Wanda had more friends than he did. For the first time in their lives, Wanda actually had a social life, and he didn't. Sure, that was mainly because Wanda had been _alive_ to make friends, but Pietro was a charmer. He'd always been a charmer. Then he died and came back with all these _issues_ which made his _literal witch_ of a sister more appealing than him.

He needed friends. He needed _allies_. Hell, he just needed someone who could get him across the Atlantic to Scotland. He didn't care if he had to search the whole country once he got there; he just needed to _get there first._

He'd tried calling Stark. Stark would've been the easiest solution: a man with the means, money, and motivation for this.

Stark never picked up the phone. He'd shut Friday offline too.

Pietro…didn't really have anyone else to turn to. His family believed Lian was dead. He barely knew Wilson or the robot who hung around his sister. Rogers was a man of heart, Pietro knew, eager to trust its whims and convictions. His quest to save his friend's soul was proof enough of that. However, Rogers would probably want him to come back in and seek help from the team. Considering they'd locked him up for observation once already, Pietro wasn't keen on returning for the same treatment.

Dr. Selvig? No, Erik was off on sabbatical somewhere. Or exile. Retreat. Whatever Erik chose to call it when he squirreled himself away with books and research and scientific instruments with no pants on. Erik cut off contact to the outside world in his reclusive state.

 _Rhodes_.

That—that could work.

Pietro dialed the soldier's number, holding the phone to his ear in too tight a grip, judging by the creak of metal and plastic.

Early in his hospital stay, they'd given him a list of all the Avengers' phone numbers. Cooped up in the room, he'd had nothing better to do than memorize them. He'd never called them—he was used to a team of two, after all, not a squadron—but he knew them by heart.

 _Answer answer answer answer answer—_

"Hello?" Rhodes' voice scraped his throat when he spoke, rough and hoarse with a fatigue echoed in the burn of Pietro's muscles. He must not have slept all night either. "James Rhodes speaking."

"Rhodes, this is Pietro Maximoff."

A sharp intake of breath over the line. "Pietro? Where are you?"

Pietro uncovered a patch of damp sidewalk with his toe. The fraying mesh of his shoes exposed his sockless feet to the bitter chill. "An ocean away from where I need to be. Think you can do anything about that?"

Muffled voices. Was Rhodes betraying him? Tracing the call? No matter. Pietro could be long gone by the time they would arrive here.

He cut in after a long moment, "This is not a simulation. If she's in danger and I don't save her, I don't get another chance."

Manipulation was not his forte, and neither was inflicting pain. He'd never been taught how to wield words like weapons, how to twist a knife deeper into a wound with a smile.

But he'd borne witness to the demon, and you could not witness such a thing without some of it sticking to you. Once a weed is in a garden, you can't just pull the one shoot. You have to dig up the roots, and even then, the seeds will have spread, and there's nothing you can do about those until they've already grown into thorns.

Pietro hoped any cuts his thorns made would not be laced with poison, would be shallow, would heal.

"Tony's jet is here," Rhodes said. "The pilot will take you where you need to go."

* * *

He did not have to search all of Scotland for the McKinnis house. All he had to search was the tablet left lying on one of the suede leather seats inside the plane.

He ignored the data cache already brought up on the display when he powered it up, something labeled _MERRY CHRISTMAS_ that he only knew how to navigate enough to back out of it. He recognized the make of the tablet once he saw the home screen—the Stark Industries logo, of course. Partially because he wasn't a complete idiot and partially because he was good at mashing buttons, he found the app that connected to the Stark network (finally, some networking he could do) and entered his login. His restricted access immediately locked him out of over half the tablet's functions, but not the one that mattered: the search engine for the network database.

Wanda would have been proud of him for his resourcefulness if she had approved of this endeavor.

Pietro shoved thoughts of Wanda aside. It was only once he did so that he realized how much clearer his head was without the clutter of his twin, the constant feed through their bond. It was…a disturbing revelation, and a liberating one.

He typed JUMPER in first, just in case, but his low rank barred him from that file. "Jumper" wasn't who he was looking for anyway. Jumper was an experiment, a broken, angry girl who trusted no one, not even herself. He sought Liana, the girl with a job and a life and a family she would go to when she was hurt and scared.

LIANA MCKINNIS produced a link to an employee profile from Stark Industries. Pietro clicked on it. The second it popped up something seized in his chest.

There she was. Not his Lian, not even close—this woman still smiled with both eyes and mouth. She looked young, terrifyingly innocent. The time stamp on the image dated it as her first day on the job, and he could see the hint of nerves outweighed by exhilaration in the tilt of her lips. Untouched by tragedy, at least the tragedy of death. He couldn't forget the family she ran to was the same she felt she had to run from so many years ago.

He scrolled to the next image. It was more current, set around January, before H.Y.D.R.A. and Ultron and the coma. She bore a closer resemblance to the Lian he'd met. Her smile was not as wide or as toothy; her cheeks were less round, bones sharper. She'd already carried the weight of her fiancé's death on her brow for years. There were some positive changes though too: the anxiety of something new long since dispelled, her expression radiated surety, comfortability in her position, a relaxed pose that said she knew her place and it was here. Pietro hadn't believed Lian was happy among Stark's people until now.

He kept scrolling, past the images and the lump in his throat to the standard documentation. Date of birth, name, address, years of employment, occupation within the company, insurance, emergency contact, family—aha!

EDWARD MCKINNIS - PATERNAL GRANDFATHER

ISOBEL MCKINNIS - PATERNAL GRANDMOTHER

And an address that hadn't changed in forty years and was unlikely to change anytime soon.

Finally something easy.

One problem replaced the next as pain lanced through his stomach. Right. He'd been putting off eating to finalize his destination, but he'd collapse soon if he didn't refuel.

If Stark complained about all his stores being completely demolished, he'd just blame Lian.

* * *

"That's how _I_ got here," Pietro explained. "I got lost a few times trying to find the house."

"That's the idea," grunted the old man. Gray stubble patterned his cheeks, but the mane of hair atop his head matched Pietro's. He'd finally stopped glaring in Pietro's general direction. Something in the story must have relieved his suspicions. That, or the tea his wife served them all had a calming effect.

His wife puttered behind him, scoffing at his comments and tugging disapprovingly at his ponytail. She'd instructed Pietro to call her Isobel upon his arrival, the first of many instructions. The others went something like _take off your shoes, come into the kitchen, sit down, tell me what you like to eat, drink your tea, eat your sandwich_. (He'd eaten six. She'd merely squeezed his shoulder and joked about his runner's metabolism.)

She delivered the latest command as more of a gentle suggestion, timed while he chewed so he couldn't politely protest. _You can look away from her long enough to check what you're eating, dear. She's not going anywhere this time._

This time.

The press of her leg against his beneath the table provided a small comfort, a reassurance she was still here. They'd angled their chairs toward each other when they first sat down to keep each other in direct sight, but it didn't feel like enough. Pietro wanted Lian in his arms again, wanted her crushed against his chest with her arms wrapped around him, holding each other like they'd never let go. Even that hadn't felt like enough, but it was as close as he'd gotten to enough since he found her.

He had a feeling though that her family might object if he pulled her into his lap right now.

 _When did I get so tactile_? he wondered. No, tactile wasn't it. He was _starved_ , touch-starved, for a specific person. It had to be a side effect. They'd occupied the same mental space for too long, and _this was just a side effect_.

He couldn't resist a smile as she stifled her laughter in her sandwich.

 _Is that just a side effect too?_

"I appreciate your loyalty to Ana," Lian's dad said, setting down his heavy mug. Pietro couldn't be sure if he was smiling or not behind the beard, but his eyes were warm.

"Ana—oh." Pietro ducked his head at the chuckle it produced. Lian didn't let him be embarrassed for long. She elbowed him lightly, jostling him back to attention.

"It's just a family nickname," she explained.

He nodded. "Got it. I'll stick to Lian, then."

"No–no, you can use it." It was her turn to drop her eyes briefly. She flicked them back up to meet his, cheeks faintly dusted pink. "You can use it." Her grandfather coughed. She glanced at him and abruptly straightened, adding, " _You_ believed I was alive, unlike a certain someone whose name starts with _Wuh_ and ends with _Ahnda_."

"She wasn't with you—as long as I was." He caught himself before directly mentioning the chamber, especially in front of Lian's family. How much they knew and how much she wanted them to know were questions Pietro had yet to receive answers to. "I knew you were strong."

Lian found his free hand under the table and laced their fingers together. It eased the ache in his chest.

"I worried I'd find this place, but you'd be in a hospital," he admitted, opening the conversation to the others at the table. Isobel took a seat next to her husband, fingers still restless, flying over her teacup as she doctored its contents. "What did you do when she—" He trailed off, not sure how to describe Lian's teleportation.

"Landed on the front walk?" Isobel filled in. She sipped her tea. "I wanted to call the ambulance, but Ted insisted we wait until Ewan arrived."

"Really?" Lian perked up. "Why?"

Her grandpa shrugged. "Gut instinct."

"I cleaned the blood off you. It was about the only thing he let me do," Isobel huffed. "I don't have the faintest where it came from. You had no wounds."

"You had started teleporting out of bed by the time my Uber got here," Ewan took over. "Clearly it wasn't a natural condition. Observation…seemed best. I was not putting you in the hands of the government."

Lian's eyes narrowed. "Or the hands of my mother."

Ewan's jaw ticked. "Or the hands of your mother," he agreed.

Lian's grip tightened on Pietro's hand. "Good."

"What does Mila have to do with this?" Isobel demanded, her lips twisting as she spoke her daughter-in-law's name.

Lian and Ewan exchanged a long look. Ted put a hand on Isobel's shoulder, as if he could guess what was about to said. Pietro stroked the back of Lian's hand with his thumb. Whatever came next would change this family. Break something that wouldn't be easily fixed.

"Mila must have been working with H.Y.D.R.A.. The terrorists who did this to me." Lian's voice didn't waver. She glanced at Pietro. He nodded. "Who gave him his speed."

A gasp at the kitchen doorway shocked them all to action. Isobel shrieked, Ted shoved her down so his body blocked hers, Ewan jumped forward, and Pietro flung himself at the intruder, restraining the girl's arms behind her back.

Lian was less than a second behind him, disappearing from the table and blinking into space in front of the girl, but only slower, he suspected, because of the surprise. Adrenaline rocketed through him, a thrill that sent shivers racing up and down his spine. _Someone as fast as him_. _Someone who could keep up_.

Then tears sprung to Lian's eyes, and she threw her arms around the girl. Pietro released her, sidestepping around to get a look at the girl's face, to see who sparked such a reaction.

She could only be one person, with those green eyes and red hair and young face.

"Giselle," Lian whispered, voice cracking.

Giselle drew back, a choked laugh bubbling from her lips. She swiped her fingertips across her sister's cheeks, wiping away the tears. Then she lifted her head to see the crowd amassed in the kitchen over Lian's shoulder. Her eyes fell on Pietro before she turned back to her sister.

"Why don't you fill me in on when you got a boyfriend and became a superhero?"


End file.
